


The Warmest Colour

by WritingQuill



Series: At the Movies [3]
Category: La Vie d'Adèle | Blue is the Warmest Color (2013), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Sexual Content, Smut, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3998185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a young man who is still confused about who he is. He is bored and angry and irritated, until he sees a mysterious man crossing the street opposite him with the bluest eyes he's ever seen. </p><p>[Loosely based on the first half of <i>Blue is the Warmest Colour</i>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this town seem hardly worth the time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I obviously don't own any of this, it's all fanfiction yadda yadda yadda.

It was another day. The faint light from outside impregnated his room with the new dawn, and Sherlock was already bored. He turned on his bed, facing the wall and trying to fall asleep again, when there was a knock on his door. 

‘Breakfast, ‘Lock,’ his mother yelled through the door. Sherlock groaned and turned to lie on his back. He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. White, boring. Boring, boring, boring. There was one light bulb in the middle that was brand new, and the lampshade around the bulb was covered in dust because he couldn’t be bothered to clean it. Dust was elegant, after all. 

His mother disagreed. 

He got off the bed and sauntered over to the lavatory across the hall from his bedroom. Irritating ablutions dealt with, he walked back over to his bedroom and changed out of his pyjamas. White dress shirt, black fitted jeans, Converse. He wears the same combination everyday. He doesn’t know what is more boring: choosing something new to wear everyday, or having to deal with the same motions of putting on the same clothes everyday. But that’s the problem with uniforms. 

He went downstairs. 

Eating is boring, but he found he was hungry. Why? Oh, he forgot to eat the supper his mother had left him the night before. He got caught up reading a book for class. So now he sat himself across from his mother, to the right of his father, and piled a few spoonfuls of scrambled egg on his plate, along with a slice of toast. He could tell his mother was refraining from commenting lest he got spooked and refused to eat altogether. Insufferable woman. He wasn’t a woodland creature. 

But, yes, he would have. Out of spite. He was bored. 

After breakfast, Sherlock walked straight out, waving a quick goodbye to his parents and pulling his headphones out of his messenger bag. His iPod followed and soon he was walking down the street towards the bus bus stop listening to Rachmaninov. He ran to get the bus, and didn’t bother sitting when he got in because it was a five-minute drive to the train station. 

Sherlock lived in Richmond, and it was terribly inconvenient that he went to school in Central London, but on the bright side, he went to school in Central London. Besides, the school was in South Kensington, only half an hour away by train, so it wasn’t much of a bother. 

He got off the bus and walked into the train station, not stopping for more than a second to swipe his Oyster card on the machine and move towards the platform for the District line. He did this every morning, and every afternoon back, so it was mostly muscle memory at this point. Which is why bus replacement service announcements annoyed him. He hated feeling stupid. 

In the train, he quickly found a seat by the end of the carriage and pulled out the book he was reading the night before. It was _Creations of Fire_ , a book about Chemistry, which he was reading purely because he had already done the theory reading for the entire school year and his teacher suggested he pursued other areas of approach. 

The train arrived on Earl’s Court right on time, and Sherlock quickly jumped off the wait for the train to South Kensington. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps it wouldn’t be easier to just get a boat and ride it along the Thames from Richmond. But his school was nowhere near the Thames. These thoughts were fleeting as he awaited the next train, book underarm, Khachaturian on his ears. 

The rest of his journey went as it always did, and soon he was walking from the tube station to the school. Students were all around the gates, chatting and laughing before the first class bell rang. He reached into his bag for his tie, and walked towards the group into which he had been welcomed — sort of — a few years before. Lestrade had been having an enthusiastic conversation with Stamford about something pointless, probably, but stopped talking to greet Sherlock, and Stamford also turned in his direction. 

‘Morning, sunshine,’ said Lestrade, laughter in his voice. Stamford chuckled along. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

‘Clever. I hope you didn’t hurt your tiny little brain coming up with that clever jab at my bad temper in the morning, which is perfectly justified, seeing as I have to spend every morning stuck in a giant metal tube for half an hour with other _people_ ,’ Sherlock replied. ‘But, yes, good morning.’ 

Lestrade’s and Stamford’s smiles never faltered. 

‘Peppy as ever, I see,’ Stamford commented. ‘Good to know that in an ever-changing world, we can always count on Holmes’s sour mood to lift our spirits.’ 

Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again. And sighed. Sometimes these people were insufferable. 

‘Yes, yes, let’s go in, all these people are giving me a headache,’ Sherlock said, walking past them towards the main building of the school. Lestrade and Stamford followed, and resumed their previous conversation until they reached their first class: Biology. 

- 

During break, Sherlock sat with Lestrade, Stamford and a few other people — Gregson, Donovan and Anderson. In an alcove mostly hidden away, Sherlock could see Irene and Kate smoking cigarettes, and he wished he could join them for a fag, but they only spent time with him on Thursday nights when they hit the clubs in Soho. So he tried to pay attention to what was being said and push down the need for the nicotine. He wasn’t addicted. 

‘Oi, Holmes,’ Gregson called, pulling Sherlock out of his craving daydreams. ‘Molly Hooper is looking at you again.’ 

‘So?’ 

‘“So?” So she’s really fit and probably totally willing to do you!’ Gregson said, and now the rest of the group was paying attention to this little conversation. Anderson guffawed for some reason, and Stamford shook his head. 

‘She’s a nice girl,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t talk about her like that.’ 

‘Come on, mate, do you fancy her or something? She’s clearly hung up on Sherly here, and I’m just saying this could be an advantageous situation for him.’ 

‘Indeed it would be if I were in any way interested. Alas, I am not, so please stop bothering me with this nonsense,’ Sherlock said, putting his foot down. He could not imagine a worse fate than having to romance _Molly Hooper_ of all people. Sure, she was an efficient lab partner, but as anything else, she was far too mild a personality, too people-pleasing. It was annoying. Still, through the not-so-subtle power of peer pressure, he turned his head slightly to look in the general direction of Molly. She of course caught him looking and sent an excited way his way. He turned back and chastised himself for being so easily manipulated.

‘Knew he’d look,’ commented Gregson, smugly. 

‘Shut up,’ said Sherlock, growing grumpier and grumpier each passing minute. 

- 

Finally, Chemistry. Besides Stamford, no one from their little group was in Advanced Chemistry, so Sherlock relaxed slightly from his perpetual annoyance at waste of space he was obligated to call humans. 

They were doing an experiment that Sherlock had already done once when he was using the lab after school, so he just had to recreate the results, which would be easy to do. The teacher left the room, and a buzz of chit-chatter filled the room, mixed with the sounds of metal hitting glass and the smells of the chemical reactions. It was a bit of sensory overload, and Sherlock tried to keep the headache at bay. 

Suddenly, through all the noise, a hand touched his shoulder. He startled and almost punched the culprit. It was Molly. 

‘What?’ he asked callously. She shied away. 

‘Erm, nothing. I. Hm. I was wondering. Moran’s party. Are you, hm, going?’ she asked. 

‘I don’t go to parties.’ 

‘No, right. But! This is going to be fun, there’s a pool and a karaoke machine, and I think—’

‘Molly. I am not going. The last thing I wish to do with any one of my evenings is to spend any amount of time with these baboons in Moran’s house,’ he said, pontificating by gesturing at the baboons around him, trying and failing to perform the simplest of experiments. 

‘Oh. Okay. Well, then I’ll see you around, then.’ 

‘Yes,’ he said, no longer paying attention to her, turning back to his experiment. Molly left quietly and Sherlock resumed trying to block the sound of everyone else. 

- 

Sherlock put on a fitted grey shirt, black skinny jeans that shimmered every-so-slightly, dark grey desert boots and a leather jacket. He’d styled his hair to look as if he hadn’t, and he had on him only keys, his ID and a twenty pound note. Irene would be here in her car any minute, and he was ready to go. 

When he descended the stairs, he heard soft jazz playing in the lounge. His parents were having wine and talking, as they usually did at nights when Father wasn’t working late and Mummy wasn’t busy doing research. They looked up when he appeared on the landing. 

‘You look rather fancy for a study session with Irene,’ his mother said. Sherlock shrugged. 

‘I am fancy,’ he replied sarcastically. 

‘Well, regardless of where this study session is supposed to take place, call us when you get there, and be home by one,’ Mummy said. After years of dealing with a rebellious teenaged Mycroft (though Sherlock could hardly believe _Mycroft_ of all people had ever been rebellious) his parents learned that the more effective way of handling young adults was to give them space to breathe. So Sherlock had never been smothered, or grounded or had a strict curfew, and therefore he never rebelled against his parents. They lived in a mutual agreement that if Sherlock tried not to be a disappointment (by, say, doing drugs, having tons of sex with strangers or stealing things) he would have more freedom in his home to live as he chose. 

It didn’t mean they needed to know about that brief stint with cocaine during his brief… friendship with Jim Moriarty two years prior. 

‘Fine. But I prefer to text.’ 

‘And I prefer to hear my son’s voice,’ Mummy gave him The Eyebrow, and so he complied. At that moment, there was an obnoxious car honk outside.

‘I’ll call. But now I have to go. Laters,’ Sherlock said, putting his jacket on and slipping out the door. He walked towards Irene’s Mini — an early graduation present from her Papa — and saw that Kate was already seating on the passenger seat, so he went straight for the back. 

‘Hello, sexy,’ Irene greeted him as he sat. Kate gave him a wave as she chewed her gum. She was wearing a strapless dress and the air around her smelled like peppermint and cinnamon. Sherlock slid over to sit behind the driver’s seat. ‘Ready to party?’ 

‘Where are we going?’ 

‘Guess!’ teased Kate, blowing a gum bubble and popping it loudly. She winked at him with fake eyelashes. Her skin was covered with glitter powder. 

‘Electric? Fabric? Corsica? Not Mahiki, for God’s sake,’ he said. Irene laughed. 

‘No, young grasshopper. All wonderful suggestions, but we’re going somewhere even more special. Free entry, free booze, possibly free pot or X if we’re in the right place at the right time…’ Irene said, her voice taking on a plotting tone. Sherlock groaned. 

‘And where might this magical party oasis be, pray?’ 

‘Sebastian Moran’s house.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written anything in a while for lack of inspiration, but I'm really excited about this work, so hopefully you'll like it as well. 
> 
> I'm writing as I go along, so I can't say for certain when updates will happen, but I'm on break from uni, so I have plenty of time to write. 
> 
> Also, those nightclubs are all real London nightclubs. Whether they are good or not, I couldn't tell you. I just took them from a Time Out list n.n 
> 
> Please let me know what you think. Thank you!
> 
> P.S.: if you're into playlists, I made one for this fic! You can find it [here](https://8tracks.com/mariana-duarte-1291/the-warmest-colour).


	2. luscious mix of words and tricks

Sherlock groaned. The worst possible place they could have ended up. A party filled with idiots hosted by part-time fuck buddy, full-time body guard of his own former drug dealer. Great. 

‘Do you hate me? Is that why you keep putting me in these situations?’ he asked. It was Irene’s turn to roll her eyes. 

‘Oh, for God’s sake. It’s a _party_. You haven’t used or talked to Jim in two years. All your little friends are at this party. And as I said, there’s free booze. So let’s,’ she said, a tone of finality to her voice. Kate smiled triumphantly from where she was perched on the passenger seat, winked at Sherlock, then got out of the car to join the party. 

Sherlock, resigned and irritated once more, joined Irene and Kate as they walked towards the front door, which was ajar, inviting guests to enter without bothering to knock. Irene pushed the door open and inside the townhouse were perhaps all the students from their year at school. Most were holding cans of lager, some where drinking wine, and even whisky was being had. As they walked towards the kitchen to grab a drink, Sherlock assumed, he couldn’t help but notice that people were staring at them. He didn’t know if it was because he was an oddity, not having gone to school parties in a very long time, or if it was because Irene was a strange, magnetic presence. Probably both. 

Maybe Kate’s breasts were on show. 

-

At the kitchen, yet more people. Some of them Sherlock didn’t recognised, so he deduced they were some of Moran’s skeevy friends from “the underground.” They were tall, burly guys, scruffy-looking, some even had bruises on their faces and black eyes. Definitely people Moran would spend time with. 

Sherlock took whatever Irene handed him absent-mindedly and walked out of the kitchen and into the large living room, where even more people were talking, some even dancing to some kind of electronic music. 

‘Holmes!’ exclaimed a voice behind him. Sherlock turned back to find Gregson and Lestrade looking surprised to see him. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘What are you doing here?’ 

‘I was dragged here by a third party,’ he explained, vaguely, because he didn’t need people questioning his relationship with Irene Adler, of all people. 

‘What a mysterious life you must lead,’ said Lestrade, laughter in his voice. The skin around his eyes wrinkled, he was clearly having some degree of fun. Or perhaps it was the high blood alcohol level. ‘It seems you already have a drink. Now let’s find you something to do.’ 

‘I’m fine right here, thank you.’ 

Gregson pushed his shoulder. ‘Come on, mate! Molly’s here with some friends, you can totally score with her if you want.’ 

‘And I don’t. Will you leave me be?’ he then turned away from them and resumed his staring at the people dancing in the middle of the room. It seemed infantile to him, like those parties he was forced to attend as a child because Mummy was friends with the other mothers. Forced fun. He wished they were at a club right now. Even Mahiki. The loud music making his ears hurt, the blood pumping through his veins, the utter anonymity. No one trying to set him up with the first _girl_ who glanced his way. 

Another song started playing, and it was a popular one, because more people filled the makeshift dance floor. He watched them for a minute, flaying about, grinding together, boys grabbing girls’ hips. They did the same thing in clubs, but somehow here it felt _wrong_. He needed to leave this instant. The music was giving him a headache, and the smell of perfume, booze and sweat was too much for him to handle.

Hidden behind a corner was what looked like a small library. It was blissfully empty, and Sherlock sighed a breath of relief as he put his cup of… whatever on the first flat surface available, then walked to the leather chair by the window. He sat, hugged his knees and looked out. That feeling of loneliness came crashing back like an relentless wave. Logically, he knew that that was why he did the drugs, that was why he went to clubs and tried to dance his troubles away. Irene suggested he take up the many offers he always got those nights, but his ridiculous brain drew the line on that. That was too far. That was a line he knew he wasn’t ready to cross no matter how many drugs he did or how many Kavinsky songs played on the speakers of a nameless club in a trendy bit of London. 

The door at the end of the room closed and someone stepped closer to him, then sat by his side. 

‘Hey, Sherlock,’ Molly said. He looked over at her then back at the window. ‘Bit too overwhelming out there, huh?’ 

He sighed. ‘Yes.’ 

‘I’m glad you came, though!’ she smiled, all bright and happy. She had her hair in a ponytail and blue eyeshadow on her eyes. 

‘Not my choice. Irene dragged me her under false pretences.’ 

‘Oh… Well, still! It’d be nice to catch up. You’re always so busy at school, and I don’t think we’ve ever talked.’ 

‘No.’ 

They fell silent. Sherlock looked back out the window. He could feel Molly fidgeting next to him and it brought back the anxiety from before. Nervous people annoyed him. Especially people who were nervous for no reason whatsoever. 

‘What is it?’ 

‘Oh, nothing. I should… go, then.’ 

‘Yes, thank you.’ 

He heard her sigh and walk away. He didn’t care. The door closed again. He was alone. 

\- 

Over an hour passed before he decided to leave the room and the party. He didn’t care if Irene wouldn’t drive him back, he was leaving this nonsense. 

He couldn’t find Irene or Kate downstairs so he went upstairs to see if they were in one of the bedrooms. The first two were locked. The third was empty. He tried the fourth bedroom, and there they were. Both clearly more than a little tipsy, tangled together in bed, their dresses half off, kissing each other like it was the end of the world. Sherlock cleared his throat and they looked up. Kate grinned at him. 

‘LOCKY! Are you joining us?’ she asked, her voice a couple of octaves lower. The idea could not have repulsed Sherlock more in that moment. 

‘Sssh, silly. He doesn’t like _giiiirrrrllsss_ ,’ stage-whispered Irene, following it up with a shameless guffaw. 

‘Yes. Fine. Let’s go. You two are both in no state to stay in this excuse for a party,’ he said, walking towards them. 

‘No!’ they both complained, but obliged, clearly already feeling sick from the “booze” consumed. 

‘You gon’ take us home, big boy?’ asked Kate, pulling at his T-shirt. Irene giggled and kissed her neck. 

Sherlock sighed again. ‘Let’s go.’ 

\- 

After managing to get both girls safely out of the house and into the car, Sherlock got behind the wheel and started to drive. The car was ridiculously small and he had to fold in two to fit in the little space between the seat and the dashboard, but at least they were leaving that miserable party behind. 

Even though the evening had not gone at all as he had planned, Sherlock was glad he hadn’t bumped into neither Moran nor Moriarty. He felt like he could slip at any minute these days, and Moriarty’s presence back in his life would only make it worse. 

He glanced at his watch. Not even midnight yet. What a lame evening. 

\- 

It was Saturday and Sherlock had to pick up a book he had on reserve at a bookshop on Cecil Court. He decided to spend the day in town. There was an exhibit at the V&A he wanted to see and he could always drop by the Scotland Yard, see if there were any detectives who would let him through. Meanwhile, he was on the train to Earl’s Court. He was glad the week was over. Thursday was enough to ruin it all for him. 

He decided to take the girls back to his house and put Irene in his room and Kate in Mycroft’s. His parents were already asleep and he managed to be quiet enough not to wake them up. Then he took his things and went to sleep on the sofa. 

Though he didn’t really sleep, he sulked for six hours until Mummy woke up and almost screamed when she found him unexpectedly on the sofa. 

Friday had been a normal day, nothing out of the ordinary. _Boring_. What wouldn’t he give for a little excitement in his life. Change. 

Now he was walking out of Earl’s Court tube station. He decided to take a cab instead of spending any more time on public transport. He sat back as the cabbie drove them through Knightsbridge, The Mall, to Trafalgar Sq, where Sherlock chose to get off. He paid the cabbie and made his way to the bookshop. As he was walking up the steps by the King George IV statue when he saw him. 

_He_ walked down the steps in an almost aloof manner. So comfortable in his own skin, it was alien to Sherlock. His blond hair shone in the warm sunlight, and, as if noticing he was being observed, the stranger looked up, staring Sherlock right in the eye with the bluest eyes he had ever seen. It was a shock that almost sent him backwards. The stranger shot him a small smile and looked back forward, back on his mission. Sherlock followed him with his eyes, watched his legs push forward, strong, firm. His T-shirt was stretched thin against his broad back, and the blond hair was even lighter at the back of his head. Sherlock was gobsmacked. He was stunned. 

He would never see him again.


	3. I'm looking in on the good life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, the ratings have gone way up. Proceed with caution. Things are about to get steameh up in here.

That night during dinner, Sherlock was a little distracted. He barely ate anyway, but with those blue eyes stuck in his mind, he could only absent-mindedly play with the spaghetti noodles on his plate. His mother looked over at him with concern and his father wiped sauce off his own plate with a small piece of bread, not really noticing his son was less present than usual. 

Sherlock needed to see him again. He didn’t know why, the guy could be an even bigger idiot than everyone else, for all he knew. He could be a creep, or a Creationist, or _an artist_. But there was _something_ about him, about the way he stood, or how he smiled at Sherlock completely out of the blue, that struck a chord, and now he was all Sherlock could possibly think about. That strange blond man with the blue eyes and the Pink Floyd T-shirt. 

By the time his parents were done with their dinner, Mummy had given up hope that he’d manage more than those two mouthfuls, so he took his plate to the kitchen as well. Silently, Sherlock then went straight to his room and lie in bed and think about the mysterious stranger. It wasn’t like him to fixate on random people like that, but it was as if that man had awakened something in him. Something primal that made his skin burn, his fingers twitch, his insides clench. He could feel his palpitations quicken at the clear memories of that T-shirt stretched across a broad back, the hard muscles of his backside cupped by the fitted jeans, that blond hair shining under the striking sun… those blue eyes, following him, brightening with a smile. 

In the solitude of his bedroom, Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his hands down to his pyjamas. He placed a hand on top of his penis, and the other was atop his chest, and he could feel his own heartbeat, getting quicker. He could feel the pulse on his neck vibrating. He seldom touched himself, since there was hardly ever the need to, but now his entire body was trembling in excitement. He was already hard without doing anything but think of the stranger. 

He brought back the image of the smile. It was almost a photograph in his mind, the way the sun hit his face, how playfully lopsided his grin was, how slightly crooked his front teeth were… Sherlock stroked himself lightly, once, twice. His bottoms were constricting his movements, so he pushed them away and freed himself, feeling the cold air of the room hitting his erection, which made him wince. He continued to stroke himself thinking of the muscles hidden under the baseball T-shirt sleeves, and how strong those legs were. He thought of those legs wrapped around his neck and his it became harder to breathe. 

He imagined what the stranger would be like right now. Touching him. He imagined those hands would be a bit calloused, because he played some kind of sport that got him looking toned like that. But also that he was delicate, and encouraging. Sweet, loving. Because that smile betrayed those qualities in him. He imagined the stranger would stroke him _just so_ , and Sherlock would pant, faster and faster, as the heat rose up his torso, right up his neck. He could feel his cheeks reddening. 

His hand started to move faster and his breathing got more laboured. His ears were ringing as pleasure radiated through his body, his toes curled. The images in his mind got blurred, but it was like he could _feel_ him in the room, holding his hand, touching his cock with his hands and with his mouth. He could feel the warmth of that gorgeous mouth wrapped around his erection and that got him even more heated, and his hand moving faster and faster. With his left hand, Sherlock massaged his own chest, gripping his nipples, making himself hiss. His right hand was stroking up and down, as his thumb moved across the head. It was almost too much, it was impossible to breathe. 

Then as quickly as he started, he came. Spluttering all over himself, ejaculate pooling on his belly. He was panting hard, spent from his release. 

He used his T-shirt to wipe himself clean, threw it aside on the floor by the bed and went back to his spot, lying back and staring at the ceiling. 

That had been unusual. He had masturbated before, but never with someone in mind. And this particular fantasy was having him look at where his own desires lay. He’d never thought much about his own sexuality. Irene was always telling him how fluid she thought it was, that for her it didn’t matter if they had a penis or a vagina, that it was all sex. But right now, thinking of the handsome stranger, of his undeniable masculine figure, Sherlock couldn’t deny that that was what had him fixated firstly. He had never found the female figure appealing. It was too delicate, too smooth… 

Sherlock didn’t know how his parents would react to having a homosexual child. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind. 

He wasn’t going to tell them. Especially not after having had this epiphany in a post-orgasmic haze. 

But it was something to file away for future thought. 

Meanwhile, he slowly closed his eyes and, finally too tired to stay awake, drifted off into peaceful sleep. 

-

Next Thursday, Sherlock made Irene promise not to take them to another ridiculous party. She called him a “silly” and drove them to London. They stopped at their usual (obscenely expensive) car park and walked to Irene’s favourite gay club in Soho. It was openly a all-welcoming gay club, but it was mostly attended by young lesbians. Or bi girls looking to dance with other girls. Like Irene. She dragged Sherlock in, and some women gave him dirty looks. He glared back at them and followed Irene into the main dance area of the club. There was a bar next to it which was surprisingly easy to access. Irene yelled something he couldn’t make out and pointed at the dace floor, which he understood to mean she was going to dance. He motioned for her to go and made to the bar to get something to drink. 

The bartender handed him his regular Coke — he was the designated driver again tonight — and he leaned against the bar to watch the crowd. Women in all shapes, sizes and colours were crammed together in the dance floor, moving together with the music. He couldn’t make out the song, but it was something dance-y. His epiphany from almost a week before came back to him at that moment. A straight man would find something he liked, looking at these women. There was bound to be someone he found attractive, if not all. But to him it was like an experiment, like watching chemical reactions in the lab, or specimens on a petri dish. There was nothing sexy about them, even the ones that had a more androgynous look. He sighed and took a sip of his Coke, and looked away from the crowd dancing. 

Something caught his eye by the door. Some _one_. The shape of the head was unmistakable. That lopsided smile. 

It was _him_. 

There was no time to warn Irene. Sherlock abandoned his glass at the bar and followed him. The stranger and his group (two other strangers) left the club and walked down the street to another popular hang out place, except this was only a bar, and there were only men there. 

The bar was just a room, really, with tables and booths, and there was a small stair case that led to a sort of balcony upstairs that served as a mezzanine/first floor. There were men sitting in large groups having animated conversations, couples whispering in each other’s ears, and couples just plain snogging in the darker corners. Overall people just seemed to be having a good time. 

Sherlock needed to find him. 

He looked around from the seat he had found by the bar. There were many blond men, but none were _his_ , and wasn’t it dangerous that he was already thinking of this man as his. He was likely never to meet him. Or to be disappointed in case he did. 

Then he saw him. Walking down the stairs. Alone. Walking towards him. 

Well, the bar, probably. But that’s where Sherlock was. 

The stranger leaned against the bar and ordered a Guinness. As he waited, he looked at Sherlock. _Right at him_. 

‘Hey!’ he said, smiling again, that smile that did things to Sherlock. 

Sherlock cleared his throat, ‘hm, hey.’ 

‘I remember you. Saw you at Trafalgar Square last weekend.’ 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. The stranger remembered him? How? That had been days ago, and their encounter which hadn’t even been an encounter lasted no longer than fifteen seconds. 

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, you were walking up the stairs and you stared right at me. I smiled at you,’ he said, smiling wider. The bartender put the tall pint of stout in front of him and he thanked him. ‘Don’t ask me why I remember, though, I usually have a very poor memory for faces.’ He chuckled and the Sherlock saved the sound into his hard drive for later analysis. 

‘I… remember you as well. You were wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt,’ Sherlock said, then berated himself for being so specific, but that just made the stranger laugh again. 

‘Good memory!’ he said. ‘I’m John, by the way. John Watson.’ 

John Watson. _John Watson_. 

John Watson was staring right at him. He sipped his beer. He licked the little foam residue from his upper lip. Sherlock followed the movement with his eyes transfixed. He needs to introduced himself. 

Right. 

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ he said. 

John Watson _giggled_. ‘What an interesting name!’ He smiled sweetly. ‘I supposed someone so interesting-looking could not have an ordinary name.’ 

‘Thanks?’ Sherlock asked. 

‘No, sorry. It _was_ a compliment. I’ve just had a few beers already tonight, so I might not be making a whole lotta sense, y’know,’ said John. His radiant smile blinded Sherlock. He wanted to kiss it off. That feeling surprised him. As did the feeling that he needed to know more. More about who was John Watson. 

‘Celebrating?’ asked Sherlock. 

‘Indeed, I am!’ John exclaimed, clasping a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder (the spot would burn for hours afterwards.) ‘And you don’t have a drink. Bartender, give this gentleman a glass of your finest fizzy drink!’ 

‘I don’t get beer?’ 

John smirked. ‘Look, Sherlock, I’m not gonna get your thrown out for being a minor, but I’m not gonna let them serve you alcohol either.’ 

‘How do you know I’m a minor?’ Sherlock asked, surprised at this man’s deduction abilities. Perhaps he wasn’t going to be boring and idiotic like the rest of them.

‘You just have a look about you. A wide-eyed, trying-to-play-it-cool-so-I-don’t-get-carded look. Like you’re trying too hard to fit in. Classic signs of a minor in a bar.’ 

Sherlock snorted. ‘Well, I’m only two months away from eighteen, so I’m not that much of a minor.’ 

‘Fair enough. And in two months I will buy you a beer. But today you get a Coke.’ And as f a cue, the bartender placed a glass of Coke in front of him. It had a pink straw on it. ‘Thank you.; 

A companionable silence fell between them as Sherlock and John sipped on their respective drinks. Sherlock broke first. 

‘So, what are you celebrating?’ 

‘Final exams. They ended today, and we’re all kinda happy about it.’ 

‘Ah I see.’ 

John chuckled. [Filed.] 

‘You’re not super into small talk, are you?’ 

Sherlock looked down at his feet. ‘Not particularly.’ 

‘I’m not either. I’m good at faking it, though. How about this? Let’s introduce ourselves again, then talk about really deep stuff, like the theory of relativity or how religion affects war. I’m John Watson, I study Medicine at UCL, and I played the clarinet in school,’ he said. Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. This man was… amazing. And he was talking to him. And he wanted to keep talking to him. And he wanted to buy him a beer when he turned eighteen. He was besotted. 

‘I—’

‘Talkin’ about yourself there, John?’ asked a man, coming from behind John and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. ‘I see you made a new friend.’ 

John looked up at this man — tall, burly, strong, muscly, beautiful — and smiled that radiant smile of his. ‘Yes. This is Sherlock. He was about to tell me all about himself. We were gonna have a deep conversation about our troops.’ 

The other man chuckled. ‘Sounds about right. Oh, sorry. I’m James Sholto, nice to meet you,’ he said, extending a hand for Sherlock to shake. He did. James Sholto’s grip was firm, almost threatening. His eyes were friendly and ferocious. He was possessive of John. John was unawares. 

Sherlock’s stomach sank. 

‘Sorry to have to break this up, but Bill just met someone that works at Bluebell so we can get in tonight,’ Sholto explained, looking almost apologetically between John and Sherlock. 

‘That’s fine. You go ahead, and I’ll meet you outside in a bit,’ John said. Sholto left. They were alone again. Now the silence was awkward. 

‘It was nice meeting you, Sherlock.’ 

Sherlock looked up and smiled. He nodded. ‘You too.’ 

‘How about this. Gimme your phone.’ Sherlock did. John unlocked it and started to type. Slowly. Like he didn’t know how technology worked. 

Normally Sherlock would have found that irritating, but John somehow made it endearing. 

‘Here,’ he said, handing Sherlock back the phone. ‘That’s my phone number on your phone. I texted myself so I have yours too. Drop me a line sometime.’ John smiled radiantly, those blue eyes sparkling in the hazy air of the crowded bar. 

‘I will.’ 

‘Brilliant! I’ll talk to you later, then,’ John said, with a wink, then left. 

Sherlock stood by the bar, drink forgotten, looking from his phone to the door. He had gotten John Watson’s phone number. 

Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter. Please let me know what you think in the comments or on my [blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Cheers!


	4. something's gotta stop the free fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the rating might be going up in the next chapter.

It was Monday morning when Sherlock got his first text from John. 

**From: John Watson, 9:34**  
**Hey! If you’re not busy today, wanna grab lunch?**

Sherlock stared at his phone as he sat down for his second class of the day, Chemistry. He smiled down at his phone and make quick work at sending a reply. 

**I’m not busy. Can you meet outside the school at 1310? SH**

He didn’t want to sound too eager, but it was hard to when John wanted to have lunch with him. Probably just as friends of course, because there was that Sholto guy, but Sherlock didn’t care. At least he would get to see what John was like, in real life, not nighttime bars, where everything is distorted by a haze of fantasy. The reply came. 

**From: John Watson, 9:43**   **Sounds good. What’s the address?**

Barely containing his excitement, Sherlock typed and sent the address to the school, then sat back, unable to concentrate during his favourite class due to his impending sort-of date with John. Was it a date? Did it count as a date when one of the parties was already in a relationship with somebody else? Did that mean John was cheating on Sholto by inviting him to lunch? Or maybe John just wanted to be his friend, spend time with him, pick his brain. Some people were friendly like that, and John certainly seemed friendly enough. Those questions plagued his mind the rest of the day, until the bell rang for lunch, and the pupils left the building en masse, hurrying to escape the lunch queues. Sherlock was walking out with Lestrade and Stamford, and they were joined at the entrance to the building by Gregson, Donovan and Anderson, who started to chat with Lestrade. At the gates to the school, Sherlock looked around and found John leaning against a lamppost across the street, looking incredibly cool in thigh-hugging jeans and a leather jacket. He had a battered brown messenger bag slung over one shoulder and was reading a book Sherlock couldn’t make out from that distance. At the sound of the people leaving the school, John looked up and found Sherlock in the crowd. He gave a small wave and Sherlock felt his insides melt. 

Without saying goodbye to the group, Sherlock went to cross the street. John smiled at him and put his book back in his bag as Sherlock joined him by the lamppost. They were closer to each other than Sherlock was usually comfortable with, but seeing that bright smile on John’s face made all the awkwardness go away. He was wanted here. John had asked him to be here. 

‘Good afternoon,’ said John after a beat. Sherlock cleared his throat, a smile threatening to bloom on his lips. 

‘Yes. Lunch?’ 

John chuckled (Sherlock had replayed that sound in his Mind Palace on loop since Thursday) and nodded. ‘I was thinking we could go to this place nearby that has great sandwiches. I love it but I don’t get to go there often since it’s so far out of my way,’ he explained. Sherlock’s eyes widened. 

‘Sorry I made you come this far, I didn’t—’ Sherlock tried to apologise, but John stopped him. 

‘Nonsense, it’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything. I’ve given myself a break before I start hitting the books again, so I’ve been kinda getting to know London again properly.’ 

‘Are you not from London originally?’ 

John shook his head. ‘No, my sister and I moved here when from Edinburgh when our parents died. I was ten, she was fourteen. I’ve pretty much lost all the Scottish accent I had, sadly.’

‘Sorry about that,’ said Sherlock. He didn’t really know how to talk to people about dead relatives. John just nudged him. 

‘About my lost accent or my dead parents?’ he teased. ‘I’m joking. It’s fine. It’s been eleven years now, I’m pretty much emotionally over it. It was a car crash, not a gruesome murder or anything that would make me want to put on a bat costume and play vigilante at night.’ 

What?

‘What?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Bat costume?’ 

‘Yeah, you know. From Batman.’ 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘I don’t know what a Batman is.’ 

‘The superhero! Seriously?’ he laughed again.

‘I don’t care for those kinds of things… Superheroes, comic books…’ Sherlock shrugged. ‘Waste of brain space.’ 

John nodded. ‘Fair enough. Of course, that is complete nonsense, but if you don’t like it, you don’t like it. The point is, I’m not sad about my parents’ death anymore. Besides, my Aunt Bel is great.’ 

Sherlock smiled. 

They got to the café John was talking about and got a table outside since it was a sunny day. John told Sherlock to get whatever he wanted, it was his treat, and it felt more and more like a date every second. Not that Sherlock know what a date felt like, having never been in one, but he’d watched movies. Well, _a_ movie. With Mummy. She was a big fan of _When Harry Met Sally…_ , so he’d seen it a hundred times. 

John ordered a BLT with a chickpea and lentil soup, and an iced tea, while Sherlock ordered a ham and cheese toasted sandwich with a side salad and nothing to drink. John chuckled at his order. 

‘What a challenging palette,’ he said. 

‘Shut up,’ said Sherlock, blushing. John winked. Sherlock’s insides were on the rollercoaster of their lives today. 

After the waitress brought John’s drink, he settled back on his chair. ‘So, Sherlock, you’re almost done with school.’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘Only a month to go, thank god.’ 

‘Is it that bad?’ John’s brows were furrowed. He was worried. 

‘Not really. They’re all simple-minded idiots, and I can’t wait to be rid of them.’ 

‘I felt the same way when I was at school,’ John said. ‘What are you plans afterwards?’ 

‘I’m going to Imperial to study Chemistry. I already got an unconditional acceptance, so at this point I’m only going to school because otherwise my parents would annoy me to ends of the Earth.’ 

John laughed. ‘Makes sense. You must be great at Chemistry, then. Favourite subject?’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘Yes. I read the entire syllabus before every school year and I have a standing agreement with the Chemistry teacher that I can use the lab after school to do my own experiments. It’s not just Chemistry, though, I have an interest in all Sciences.’

‘It’s good that you’re excited about what you love like that,’ John said. ‘Some people just live life apathetically, dealing with things as they happen. I believe in having ambition and making things happen.’ 

Sherlock smiled. ‘Yes. Except I still don’t know what I’m going to do after university. I don’t want to only sit in a lab all day and be boring.’ 

‘So what are you other interests? Maybe we can figure it out for you,’ John asked as they waitress dropped off their lunch. John tucked in right away, going straight for the soup. Sherlock took a moment to ponder over John’s questions. He didn’t really want to share his interests because people usually said he was weird, but at the same time he didn’t want to lie to John. 

‘I like serial killers,’ he blurted out, and John almost spat his soup, startled. 

‘Excuse me?’ 

‘I like to read about serial killers. And I like to buy stupid crime novels and figure out who the murderer is before the end, and I’m almost always right. Sometimes when I find roadkill I like to experiment on it, to find out how it works, especially with birds and their wings I also like documentaries about bees.’ 

John stared at him for what felt like years, then a smile appeared on his face. 

‘Really?’ Sherlock nodded. ‘Wow, you are an odd one, aren’t you?’ 

‘People usually use the word “freak,”’ Sherlock said, staring down at his food. John leaned closer to him over the table. 

‘Hey. You’re not a freak! I meant it as a compliment, you are odd in a good way. Too many people are too alike, it’s good to have different interests and different ways of thinking. Don’t ever believe anyone who tells you you are a freak, Sherlock, because they are wrong,’ John said, his eyes filled with a fierce sort of rage, protective of Sherlock already, even though they’d only just met. 

Sherlock gulped and nodded. 

They stayed silent for a few minutes, munching on their respective meals, John sometimes taking a sip from his glass. It was nice, there was no pressure to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Then John spoke. 

‘You could be a forensic person. Like those guys in the _CSI_ shows who analyse evidence to catch the criminal!’ he exclaimed happily, startling Sherlock. 

‘Too much paperwork,’ he said. ‘I thought about it before, but it’s more filling out reports than actually doing any practical work. Not worth it.’ 

John snorted. ‘Then go rogue. Private detective-slash-forensic analyst,’ he suggested. Sherlock’s eyed widened. Private. That could be interesting. How come he’d never thought of that before? 

‘That’s a great idea!’ he said. John beamed. 

‘Are you two finished?’ asked the waitress pointing at their empty plates. John nodded, and looked at his watch. 

‘I think you’ll be late if we stay much longer. I also made plans with James for the late afternoon,’ John said. ‘But this was fun, wasn’t it?’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘Yes. I don’t usually do things… with other people. So, yes. Thank you,’ he said. 

‘My pleasure,’ John said, taking some bills out of his wallet and putting them on the table. They both stood up. ‘We should hang out again some other time!’

‘Sure. I’m always free on weekends, so.’ 

John smiled again. ‘Great. How about a day outing on Saturday? We could go to a museum, have a picnic, or something silly like that. It’ll be fun.’ 

With anyone else, that seemed like the worst idea, but Sherlock had begun to grow fond of John. He no longer only lusted after him, but wanted to be in his presence, hear his laughter, look into his blue eyes filled with ever-present mirth. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with John. So he nodded. ‘Okay, that sounds good.’ 

They were on the street, outside the café. Sherlock was looking at the ground. 

‘Well, thank you for a lovely lunch,’ said John. ‘I’m going that way.’

‘I’m that way,’ Sherlock said, pointed the opposite way. ‘See you Saturday, then.’ 

‘Yes. Good bye,’ he smiled. He seemed reluctant to leave. Sherlock was as well. He didn’t want to burst the bubble of this wonderful afternoon by walking back to school to spend the remainder of his day with those idiots. But unfortunately, he had to. John patted his arm slightly, and Sherlock could tell he was blushing. 

They said good bye once more and parted ways, Sherlock walking back to school and John going to meet James. 

\- 

When Sherlock arrived at the school, the students were already huddled in packs by the entrance, enjoying the last few minutes before the bell rang for the rest of the day of classes. He searched the crowd for his group of companions and spotted them by the gates, talking in a circle. Lestrade saw him and waved, beckoning him to join them. 

As Sherlock approached, he noticed Gregson seemed to be looking at him strangely. He joined the group, and before anyone else could speak, Gregson started. 

‘Who was that guy?’ 

‘What?’ asked Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. 

‘That guy in the tight jeans and leather you went out with? That totally looks like a queer?’ Gregson said, and Lestrade’s eyes widened. 

‘Hey, man, that’s too much.’ 

‘No, it’s fine, Lestrade,’ Sherlock said. ‘That was a friend of mine, not that is any of your business.’ 

Gregson snorted. ‘Friend, right. You don’t have friends, remember? Did you meet him when you went to a gay club with Irene Adler?’ 

At that Sherlock was caught off-guard. He mostly kept his outings with Irene a secret, because he knew people would make a big deal out of it. The double standards regarding sexualities in the school was far too annoying for Sherlock to want to deal with. But since the party the week before, he figured someone would have noticed that he went with Irene and Kate, and that he left with them as well. Damn. 

‘What if I did?’ 

‘Well, I just don’t want to hang out with a guy who is checking out my arse the whole time!’ said Gregson. Anderson cried “yeah!” behind him. Lestrade and Stamford looked at each other uncomfortably. A crowd was starting to form around them. 

Sherlock felt someone stand behind him. He looked and saw Irene looking worried. It was like everyone was prepared to start chanting “fight!”, but Sherlock would not give them the satisfaction. 

‘Think whatever you want, but I have never nor will ever look at that fat excuse for an arse you have,’ there was laughter around them, ‘and if you would rather I went away, then you have got your wish, because I honestly don’t care what you think of me, since it could not be any worse than what I think of you,’ he finished, stepping around the group and walking away, leaving the group stunned behind him. Irene followed, putting an arm around him as if to protect him. 

‘I’m so sorry, Sherlock,’ she said, unusually tender. ‘Those guys are pricks.’ 

‘Yes, I know,’ said Sherlock. He didn’t actually care, to be quite honest. Sure, it was kinda of upsetting that Lestrade and Stamford, whom he actually considered friends, didn’t say anything to his defence, but he put that to them being caught off-guard. It didn’t seem like Gregson’s outburst was planned, and honestly Sherlock couldn’t care less. As he always said, people were idiots, and yes, he was gay, but he wasn’t going to come out to the entire school when he had just come to terms with it himself, and he wasn’t going to let _Gregson_ of all people ruin the pleasant feeling an afternoon with John had give him. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, finally. 

Irene hummed next to him, not fully believing him. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to be believed. 

\- 

John had texted him to meet him at the Holborn tube station, so Sherlock switched to the Piccadilly line in South Kensington. It was almost ten thirty in the morning, so the trains weren’t particularly busy yet, though it being a sunny Saturday, Sherlock knew that wouldn’t last for much longer. The train took about twenty minutes to arrive, and when Sherlock stepped off the station onto Kingsway, he looked around for John and saw him standing by a newsstand, browsing through the science magazines. 

Sherlock approached him and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. John turned around and beamed at him. ‘Good morning!’ he greeted, happily. Sherlock smiled back. 

‘So, where are we going?’ he asked in lieu of greeting. John rubbed his hands together, a wicked grin on his lips. 

‘Prepare to be astounded. Actually, I’m sure you’ve been to where we’re going before, given your interests, but it is one of my favourite museums in London, so I figured we might go anyway.’ 

‘Should I be afraid?’ asked Sherlock, to which John stuck his tongue out at him, which almost have Sherlock a heart attack right there and then. John had a few years on him, and he was still playful and adorable and Sherlock wanted to squeeze him, which was an odd feeling. 

The rest of his week after that ridiculous debacle with Gregson had been quite miserable for him. Some people took the liberty to start calling him names as he walked past them, especially since he no longer had the protection of Walking with Others in the corridors, so he was a weird loner who yep just happened to also be a queer let’s mock him. It was frustrating. The slurs, the name-calling, the constant attention that he was now getting. So when Friday afternoon rolled in, and he walked home, nothing seemed better than this moment, than getting to spend the whole Saturday with only John all to himself. 

It was scary how fast he was falling. 

They took a right on Remnant St and ended up on Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Sherlock had never been there before, it seemed like it was only another London park with some tennis courts and a café. He looked at John, who was still smiling. 

‘Here we are,’ John said, as they walked around the park and stopped in front of the The Royal College of Surgeons building. It was a tall, pale grey building, clearly Victorian, and with Greek-style beams in the entrance. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John. He’d heard of this place, but had never come for some reason. 

‘The Royal College of Surgeons?’ Sherlock asked. 

‘Yep,’ John nodded. 

‘The Hunterian Museum?’ he asked again, letting the excitement show up in his voice. John grinned. 

‘Indeed.’ 

After that, they all but ran into the building, grabbed two visitor passes at the door, and climbed the staircase that led to the duplex room featuring the John Hunter exhibition of medical oddities and surgical instruments. John explained how as a teenager he had discovered about John Hunter after reading _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ at school, and how that sparked his love for medicine. He told Sherlock about how he spent days after days looking at each of the pieces meticulously, from the deformed skulls to the fishbones and fins and teeth. 

Sherlock was fascinated. By both the curiosity of a younger John which reminded him of himself, and by this amazing collection. So much to look at, he could hardly have imagined. The specimens were fascinating, gruesome and utterly brilliant. There were entire skeletons, there was the skeleton of the Irish Giant, which was tallest than he thought, the bones so big it sent a thrill up his spine. Sherlock looked at John, his eyes sparkling with excitement. John smiled back and dragged him around the exhibition, not letting him linger anywhere too long because there was so much to see. 

Upstairs was a more curated exhibit, featuring mostly surgical instruments. It also showed the chronological evolution of plastic surgery, beginning from the First World War. 

They spent nearly two hours at the museum, inspecting everything and discussing their mutual interest in medical oddities. Then they decided to go to Covent Garden to pick up lunch and then go somewhere to eat it. Since it was sunny, a park seemed the best choice. Sherlock argued that Green Park was the closest to Covent Garden even though it was still quite a walk, and John agreed, saying that at least they’d work up their appetite. 

They walked leisurely, talking and not talking, enjoying the sun as it warmed the top of their heads, watching the tourists with amusement. Sherlock had never had this much fun with another person. They giggled together about things that were improper, and discussed Sherlock’s science experiments. 

Finally arriving at the park, they chose a spot by a few trees, away from the many other picnickers. They sat down on the grass and unpacked their lunch, a few sandwiches, crisps, a salad, and drinks. John went straight for his sandwich, clearly hungry. Sherlock was never very hungry, so he just picked at his food, taking a few small bites. 

‘You don’t eat a lot, do you?’ asked John after swallowing a mouthful. Sherlock shrugged. 

‘I’m never really hungry, but I’m not fussy about what I eat either. It’s just fuel.’ 

John chuckled. ‘So there’s nothing you can’t stand?’ he asked, taking a sip of his lemonade. Sherlock thought about it. 

‘Shellfish. I can’t stand it. Slimy, smelly…’ 

‘Really? I love shellfish. Oysters and crabs are my favourite.’ 

‘Ugh, oysters are the worst, though! It’s like slurping a snot or something.’ 

That made John laugh out loud. ‘You’re crazy, it’s delicious,’ he said, winking. 

Sherlock shook his head. A thought came in his mind. He wanted to ask John a question, so he looked at him. John was looking at the people around them, enjoying the sun on his skin. Would he be upset? It didn’t matter, Sherlock had to know. 

‘When was the first time…’ he began. John looked at him expectantly. ‘The first time you… tasted… another boy?’ 

John’s eyes widened, then he smiled. ‘ _Tasted_ or kissed?’ 

Sherlock felt himself blush. ‘Hm. Kissed. First, then we’ll see…’ 

With a nod, John become pensive. He was remembering back. Sherlock was curious. 

‘I think I was… fifteen? His name was Matthew, we played at the school rugby team together, and after one of the matches, we were both left behind in the lockers. I don’t really remember how it happened, only that at one point we got closer and then stared kissing. It was nice. I had been paying more attention to boys than girls at that point, and I knew that I wasn’t that into girls, at least not as much as my mates, and that men’s bodies were attractive to me,’ he explained. Sherlock nodded. 

After that, they were silent for a while. John lied back on the grass, closing his eyes against the sunshine. His eyelashes were clear blond, and his hair became almost platinum with the sun beaming on it. His chest went up and down under his grey Stone Roses t-shirt. His knees were folded up, feet pressed on the ground. He seemed relaxed. Sherlock waited to see if he would speak. 

‘My first time with a boy, and that because I was still sort of in denial and had sex with a girl at a party when I was seventeen, which was just awful in every possible way, was during my first year at uni. I was eighteen, excited about being responsible for myself for the first time. I met this guy, Henry. We were in the rugby society together, and he seemed to like me. So after a few dates, we had sex. It felt liberating, and something clicked for me. I never looked back after that.’ 

Sherlock moved to lie down next to John and stared at his face, his closed eyes, his perky nose. He was beautiful. Sherlock wanted to kiss him. John opened his eyes, and looked right at him. Those blue eyes pierced his soul as John smiled. 

‘This is nice,’ he said. Sherlock hummed. ‘Maybe a little too nice?’ 

It was Sherlock’s turn to smile. He stared at John’s lips. Feeling emboldened by something mystical, he leaned closer and closer, until his face and John’s were maybe two inches apart. He took a breath and closed the rest of the way, meeting John’s lips with his. 

A bomb went off inside his body when John pressed closer, and with his right hand, cupped Sherlock’s cheek. Their kiss deepened. John’s lips were slightly chapped, but very soft and warm. He was on a cloud, flying high as he felt John’s nose against his cheek, their breaths mingling as John pressed against his lips and their tongues met. 

It was Sherlock’s first kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Now a few info regarding the story: 
> 
> 1) for the sake of the adaptation, John is gay in this story, not bi or however else he might characterised in the show;  
> 2) John Hunter's house was the Robert Louis Stevenson's inspiration for Dr Jekyll's house in the novel, and you can find out more [here](http://www.bl.uk/romantics-and-victorians/articles/duality-in-robert-louis-stevensons-strange-case-of-dr-jekyll-and-mr-hyde);
> 
> Also, I've been making some covers for my other works, you can check them all out [here](http://writingquill.tumblr.com/tagged/fic-cover-challenge). 
> 
> And I also made a special playlist for this work, which you can [listen here](https://8tracks.com/mariana-duarte-1291/the-warmest-colour). 
> 
> Any other questions or comments, you can leave down below or on my [blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Cheers!


	5. you're finally golden, boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the rating HAS changed. Not for the faint of heart or the minor of age. Proceed with caution. (or not, it's just porn, idk)

The kiss turned languid and then it ended altogether, and they just lied there in companionable silence, basking in the sunlight. Sherlock’s heart was thrumming, he could hear his heartbeats and wondered if John could too. Or if John was as nervous as he was. Probably not, he had experience, which Sherlock lacked. He didn’t know what this was anymore. If it was a date, did that mean John was available? Or was he cheating on Sholto with Sherlock? 

Sherlock wanted desperately to ask. He scratched his neck and looked nervously in John’s direction. 

‘We broke up,’ John said, startling Sherlock. ‘ We were never really a thing, but we decided to break off whatever it was. He felt I wasn’t into it anymore,’ he explained, as if having read Sherlock’s mind, and he thought John was done surprising him for the day. 

‘Okay…’ Sherlock all but whispered, his voice betraying how nervous he was and he silently chastised himself. 

John turned his head to face him. His eyes were soft, slightly crinkled at the corners, as if he were amused at Sherlock’s nervousness. Which he probably was because he was a bloody sadist. John winked and joined his hand with Sherlock’s. A shiver went up Sherlock’s spine and he felt goose pimples all over his arms. The skin on John’s hand was warm, a bit rough and calloused, but surprisingly soft as well. He rubbed Sherlock’s own hand with his thumb. Sherlock sighed and stared at John through half-lidded eyes. For now he was contented. 

-

In the afternoon, it started to get colder and they decided to go to John’s flat. Sherlock was nervous, he didn’t know what to expect from being in close quarters with John because all of their interactions thus far had been in open public spaces. Did it mean more kissing? Maybe more? His hands felt clammy, and there were butterflies in his stomach, but it didn’t feel… bad. He was… excited? Almost. 

John had told him he was subletting his flat from his aunt, who gave him a good enough price that he didn’t need a flatmate, and he paid her back the rest by fixing stuff around the flat and her house in Surrey. The flat was in Brixton, a small white-walled studio affair with no real separation between living room-kitchen-bedroom, only a blue door leading to the surprisingly spacious bathroom. 

Sherlock looked around, inspecting everything as John made himself comfortable, taking off his shoes and getting himself a glass of water. The walls were mostly bare, some posters scattered about. _Taxi Driver_ , _North by Northwest_ , a few posters of festivals (jazz, film), and postcards and travel mementos stuck to a cork board, from France to Australia and South Africa. He wondered if John had brought these from his own travels or if he knew someone who travelled a lot. 

Covering most of the walls in the designated living area (he figured it was, given there was a small sofa and a television there), were fully stacked bookshelves. Sherlock inspected them and found an eclectic selection of medical textbooks, classic literature and pulp fiction. He also had vinyl, CDs and DVDs. Suddenly, in front of Sherlock’s eyes, John became this fuller person, with interests and a life previous to Sherlock. He’d read books and seen movies and listened to music, and probably had discussions with other people about the things he’d read, seen and heard. 

John cleared his throat behind Sherlock, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked back to find an amused John staring at him, holding a glass of water. 

‘Having fun?’ he asked, eyes mirthful. 

‘Would it be creepy if I said yes?’ 

John laughed out loud. ‘Yes, it would, but also totally in character,’ he said. Sherlock smiled. ‘Do you want anything? Glass of water? I’ve also got tea, orange juice, Coke…’ 

‘No beer?’ asked Sherlock with a smirk. John shook his head with a tiny smile. 

‘Not yet,’ he said, and winked. 

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ 

There was a tension hanging over them, and Sherlock started to fidget, which was really not ideal. With one arm he rubbed the other and gave the room another look. On the coffee table by the sofa was an empty mug of what he assumed was once tea, and a bookmarked copy of _A Single Man_. Book. Books were good. Sherlock could talk about books and end this awkward moment of silent tension. 

‘Good book?’ he asked. 

John moved over to the sofa, sat down, and motioned for Sherlock to join him. He did, but sat one spot away. 

‘It’s pretty good. Interesting imagery, especially at the very beginning. And Isherwood really knows how to get you in the mind of the character. George is a truly fascinating person,’ John explained. Sherlock nodded. ‘Have you read any Isherwood?’ 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘I don’t really read fiction like that.’ 

‘Only crime dramas that you can solve?’ 

‘Pretty much…’ 

‘Why?’ John asked, cocking his head. Sherlock shrugged. 

‘I don’t really like them. They’re all the same, same heroes, same situations… Love, loss, death, mourning, travelling… Seems redundant to read so much when all books are about the same thing.’ 

John seemed to ponder on that, but shook his head. ‘Nope. You’re dead wrong,’ he said, determined. ‘Literature is about escapism, living endless lives, going to endless places, knowing endless people. In real life you can’t cross to another world filled with talking animals and mermaids and an evil snow witch, but you can in books. You can go on a drug-filled trip to Las Vegas, smash Paul Allen with a ax in your living room, witness the War of the Roses, visit a fantastical chocolate factory, know a young girl in the 60s who dates men for a living, participate in the University Challenge, and join a man as he goes through his all-time top 5 list of most memorable break-ups in chronological order, all from the comfort of this sofa. Isn’t it great?’ 

‘So you’d rather live fictional lives than your own?’ asked Sherlock. 

John chuckled. ‘Sometimes, yes. Sometimes when I’m tired and I’ve just been through the study marathon of my life, or got home from being on call for 48-hours, I like to take my time before falling asleep and go outside of myself. See the world through different eyes. It’s fun, sometimes sad and upsetting, but mostly it’s refreshing, and every novel I read gives me a new perspective on things.’ 

Sherlock sat, stunned, for a minute. He had a valid argument, but Sherlock isn’t didn’t see the point in it. And he must’ve said that out loud, because soon John was laughing again. 

‘Unwavering in your stubbornness,’ he said, unable to keep the smile from his voice, and Sherlock was charmed by him all over again. ‘Definitely a quality that will get you punched at some point in your life.’ 

‘Who says it hasn’t yet?’

‘Fair point,’ John said, and they again fell into silence. Sherlock watched John drink from his glass and wished he’d come closer. Or wished he had the courage to approach John himself. 

‘So…’ Sherlock began. ‘Do you… maybe…’ 

‘What?’

‘The thing… we did… before.’ Sherlock felt himself blush. _Stupid, stupid!_

‘The kissing?’ 

Sherlock nodded. 

‘Again?’ 

‘M…more?’ 

John’s eyes sparked, and he moved to sit closer to Sherlock. Their knees touched, and John put an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘You sure?’ 

Sherlock nodded again, and closed his eyes. He felt John get closer because the air got thicker around them, it was almost impossible to breathe, until John’s lips touched his, and he felt like a lightening shot through him. John’s lips were colder from the water he’d been drinking, and no longer chapped, but still as soft as he remembered. He placed a hand awkwardly on John’s shoulder, and John cupped his cheek again, caressing him gently, helping him through the first wave of awkwardness and into a more comfortable state, where they both opened their mouths and their tongues met. 

John’s arm around Sherlock’s shoulder went to rest on his waist, under his shirt, and the feeling of John’s warm hand against his bare skin along with his tongue against his so languid and pliable was enough to send shivers up and down his spine. There was electricity coursing through his veins, and all he wanted was more. 

John broke the kiss to press his mouth against his cheek and down his jaw, all the way to his neck. Sherlock hummed and used his hand on John’s shoulder to explore the hard planes of his chest. His other hand was busy going through John’s soft blond hair, slightly too long at the base of his neck. 

Their mouths joined again, but now the kiss was heated, more hot breaths and tongues than caresses and gentleness. Hands were free roaming, Sherlock moved his to lift John’s shirt off him, and they broke the kiss for a second. John was shirtless, and Sherlock was speechless, salivating at that tanned skin, taut muscles, sparse blond hair between his two perky light-brown nipples. Before he could think about doing anything, his mouth was claimed once more by John’s hungry lips. John’s hands unbuttoned his shirt deftly with those surgical hands and soon he was too shirtless, feeling the cold of the room harden his nipples and lift the hairs on his arms. 

John’s hands were all over his back, spreading their warmth through his skin. He pulled back slightly, leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. ‘We don’t have to do anything else,’ he said, breathing heavily. Sherlock was panting, his blood was boiling, and he absolutely did not want to stop. He was to strip John naked and taste him all over. 

‘Yes,’ he panted. ‘Yes, we do,’ he said, chasing John’s lips again. They met, and kept kissing, while John dragged up blindly from the sofa to the bed. They fell ungraciously, John on top of Sherlock, and their chests touched, sending another shot of electricity through his veins. He could feel himself get hard just from this, and he needed more of John. 

They quickly removed their shoes, socks and jeans, snogging just in their underwear. Sherlock was wearing his usual silk boxers, and John was wearing a red number that was as surprising as it was enticing. His own erection looked so appetising through the fabric of those red pants that Sherlock had to use all of his inner strength not to go mouthing it right away. He wouldn’t even know where to begin, even if he did, so he let John lead. 

And lead he did. 

John mouthed at his neck, sucking and licking, eliciting loud moans from Sherlock. He sucked Sherlock’s right earlobe into his mouth, and hungrily kissed his shoulders. He sucked his nippled, one first, thoroughly, beautifully, frustratingly, then the other, just the same, turning them into oversensitive peaks. Sherlock’s mind was reeling. Then he felt one of John’s hand on his thigh, caressing up and up until it reached his crotch and started slightly rubbing his erection. Sherlock let out another loud moan, which turned into a tiny whimper when John’s mouth traced the way from his chest down his abdomen and to the area his hand was rubbing. He stared Sherlock in the eye from below, then down at the silk-covered erection, and licked his lips. He looked ravenous.

He pressed a gentle kiss on the tip of his penis, then mouthed it through the fabric, wetting it all over. It was filthy and Sherlock needed more. Then John’s hands began sliding Sherlock’s underwear down his hips, and he helped by lifting his hip up a slightly. His erection sprung free, and John threw his underwear away, then stared at his penis with wonder. It was nothing to look at, really, pretty average in both size and girth, surrounded by a smattering of dark pubic hair, but John looked at it like he was a diamond, and Sherlock all of a sudden felt beautiful and unselfconscious. 

John licked Sherlock’s penis from base to tip, then again, and a third time, having Sherlock melt into a puddle of desire. He then took it in his mouth, bounced once, twice, Sherlock lost count how many times, stopping to lick around the head and massage the base. He held Sherlock’s testicles with his free hand and squeezed ever-so-gently, just enough to increase the pleasure. Sherlock felt himself approach the edge, but then John’s stopped. 

‘Not yet,’ he said, voice husky from the activities. The moved upwards, trapping Sherlock is a taste that tasted like himself. John moaned into his mouth, and Sherlock wanted him to feel like he was feeling right, so he flipped them over, and performed similar ministrations to his neck and shoulders, but lingered on this nipples for longer, savouring every taste of those perky beads. He ran a hand through the soft blond hair on John’s chest while mouthing his left nipple and felt him harden next to his stomach. So he pressed kisses down those defined abs, which were tensed. He rubbed at his erection under the red underpants, then traced it with one finger, before using both hands to remove the pants altogether. 

John’s penis was beautiful. Not much longer than his own, but thicker, and a powerful dark brown, with veins springing from the base. His pubic hair was fair and impossibly soft, and Sherlock buried his face on it, and heard John gasp loudly from above. He then licked the erection all over, from base to tip, all around the head, tasting the bead of precum. He tasted umami, almost sweet, and sharp like cider. Then Sherlock began to suck, taking all he could in, and using his hand on the rest, making up-and-down motions. If John could tell he was only learning, he didn’t let it show. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying it, moaning and grabbing Sherlock’s hair. 

Before John could come, he pulled Sherlock up so they could kiss again, the taste of himself in John’s tongue mixing with John’s in Sherlock’s. It was exhilarating, this haze of lust washing over them. As they kissed, their erections rubbed together, eliciting more moans of passion and want. 

‘John,’ Sherlock moaned. ‘John, I want…’ 

‘What do you want?’ John asked, writhing under him, running his hands through his back, kissing his neck with gusto. 

Sherlock didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted to own John. He wanted John all around him, covering him, owning him as well. He wanted to feel completely submerged in John. He wanted John in him. 

‘You… in me…’ he moaned back, panting. He felt his skin flush and his forehead wet with sweat, and he never wanted to stop.

‘Oh, Sherlock,’ John said, panting as well. His skin felt boiling hot under Sherlock’s. ‘Turn over,’ he said and Sherlock did. 

They took this time to recollect themselves, and John sat by his bottom, rubbing it gently with both hands. 

‘Very nice bottom you have, Mr Holmes,’ John said, his voice again filled with mirth. Sherlock chuckled, which he never thought he would do in a situation like this, but he figured it was a good thing. ‘Let’s see if it tastes as good as it looks.’ Then John’s mouth was on his left cheek, tasting with liberally with his tongue. And on the right, the same way. Sherlock didn’t expect it to go further, but then John opened his cheeks with his hands and his mouth was on his whole. Sherlock gasped, and whimpered as he felt John’s tongue on him, sending rays of pleasure from places he didn’t know existed. 

‘Oh my god,’ he panted. ‘Oh…’ 

John’s tongue did a flick-y sort of thing, and it send a spark through Sherlock. He shivered at the wetness and panted at the boiling need. Then John substituted his tongue with a finger, stretching him, then two. Sherlock felt him lean over the nightstand and open a drawer. He got a condom and opened it with his mouth from the sounds of it. 

‘Wait,’ Sherlock said. ‘I want to see you.’ He needed to see John, to feel him and smell him and hear him. He needed him to envelop his sense. 

So John helped him turn over and lie back against the pillows. Sherlock watched as John rolled a condom over his erection. But two lubricated fingers going inside him again made him drop his head back and grunt and moan and cry out. A few more minutes of stretching and encouraging words, and Sherlock was ready to take him in.

John started slow, inching in calmly, though Sherlock could see he needed this just as much as he did.

‘You feel to tight… so warm,’ John said. Sherlock moaned, grasping at John’s back, pulling him closer. 

Soon, John was fully inside and after a few acclimatising breathes, Sherlock nodded and John began thrusting. Gently at first, just as he always did. Gently, then firmly, then like his life depended on it. The only sounds in the room were of skin slapping together and their combined breaths as they kissed and panted. John grabbed the headboard above Sherlock’s head with one hand for support, and with the other he began pumping Sherlock’s erection. 

Sherlock felt overwhelmed with pleasure, hot all over, and breathless, and yet he never wanted it to end. He wanted to be in him forever, and he never wanted this moment to end, but then John was coming with a sharp cry, thrusting in to ride out his orgasm, and still pumping Sherlock. 

Then he felt John’s mouth instead of his hand after John pulled out, and soon it was his turn to orgasm, loudly, powerfully, crashing his entire system. 

The last thing he remembered was John’s thumb caressing his cheek and his lips pressing a kiss to his forehead before falling asleep.


	6. the solemn warmth you feel inside

The room was bathed in the soft light of early morning when Sherlock began to stir. He blinked slowly, his body refusing to fully give up on sleep yet. He felt pleasant aches all over his muscles, like he had run a marathon. He felt the steady heartbeat by his cheek and smiled into the warmth of John’s chest. Sherlock hummed and stretched a bit, opening his eyes fully and taking in the scene around him. 

He was lying atop John, who in turn had an arm around his back. They were both naked, and covered by John’s knitted quilt. Their clothes were surrounded the bed, shoes by the sofa, and there were condom wrappers by the pillows. After they had sex for the first time, Sherlock had dozed off, but woken up about an hour later, at which point he put on his boxers and followed John into the kitchen, where they ate Chinese food in their underwear, talking and laughing together, and Sherlock had never thought such ease of conversation was possible with another person, especially after intercourse. But John seemed to genuinely enjoy his presence. And after dinner, they had cleaned up and John put some music to play on his computer as they went back to bed and snogged for over an hour, just enjoying the taste of each other’s lips and the feel of each other’s skins, legs tangled and hands grasping everywhere. It had been lovely. 

Then a song had started playing that Sherlock didn’t recognised, but it sent them to another plane, and their kisses became more fervent, and soon they were doing it again, Sherlock on top this time, John guiding him through the steps, helping him, gasping and moaning with him. They fell asleep together after they came, happily tangled. 

Now Sherlock was basking in the feeling of John under him. He would never forget the night before. But he hoped John would give him the opportunity to do this many more times. Even just spending time together closely like this was more wonderful than he could have ever imagined. 

John began to stir under him. He moaned at the back of his throat and stretched, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulders tighter. 

‘Hm… ‘morning,’ he said, soft and husky from sleep. Sherlock was mesmerised by the sight of him so vulnerable and that he was allowed to witness it. 

‘Good morning,’ he whispered back. John smiled, eyes still closed, and moved his hand to stroke Sherlock’s hair. 

‘All tangled,’ he said, grinning. ‘Oopsie.’ 

Sherlock chuckled, and felt the vibration of John’s own low chuckle on his cheek. 

After a few more minutes of quiet snuggling, Sherlock felt his stomach rumble. His eyes widened and he could feel his cheeks redden. John let out a laugh. 

‘Hungry?’ he asked with a smug smile. Sherlock gulped. 

‘Maybe…’

With a chuckle and obviously reluctantly, John extricated himself from Sherlock’s grasp and searched the floor for his pants, then put them on and walked towards the kitchen to presumably see about breakfast. Sherlock looked at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand to see the time: 6:45AM. Too early for anything, really. But still, grumbling and hungry, he also got up, put on his boxers and went to join John in the kitchen. 

John was busying himself with chopping tomatoes and dicing onions, and Sherlock would offer to help, but he didn’t know how to cook. So John continued to build his omelette while Sherlock watched, mesmerised by his efficiency, his precise movements, no sign of clumsiness. He placed a large frying pan on the hob and cracked four eggs inside, then sprinkled some salt, followed by some grated cheese, and finally the tomatoes and onions. He was quick, almost like a chef, and Sherlock would tell by the way his hands moved that John would make a good surgeon. 

John flipped the omelette with an ease that betrayed how many times he’d done it before. 

‘Sherlock, can you get the toast?’ he asked, showing him to the toaster with a simple head movement. Sherlock got up from his seat, picked up two plates from the cupboard and set two slices of toast in each. He then placed one plate by his seat and the other by the adjacent seat. John finished the omelettes, divided them up with his spatula, and placed one half in each of the plates. He then served them esc a glass of raspberry and orange juice, and soon they were tucking in. Sherlock moaned at the flavours of such a simple dish, and felt more than saw John beam at him from his seat. 

‘Good?’ 

‘Mhmm,’ Sherlock hummed through his mouthful. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the food. The only sounds in the flat were the cutlery scraping the plate, juice being drunk and the faint noises of the city slowly stirring into wakefulness outside. Sherlock had never felt so contented. 

He finished his food faster than ever before in his life, and decided that sex really made him hungry. Then for some reason he remembered that music from the night before. 

‘What was that song?’ he asked. 

‘Hm?’ John asked, chewing on his toast. 

‘The song that was playing when we… did it… the second time?’ he asked, blushing. John grinned. 

‘The song?’ he asked again, after swallowing. ‘Hm… I think it was “The Remains of Rock & Roll”? I think so, yeah. Why?’ 

‘Who sings that?’ 

‘An American band called Broken Bells. I really like them.’ 

‘Hm. I wonder why that song had that effect on us…’ 

John chuckled. ‘It’s quite the sexy song. And we were already mostly there anyway, so.’ 

Sherlock smiled. ‘Fair enough.’ 

‘You finished?’ John asked, glancing at his plate. Sherlock nodded, and John picked up both plates and put them in the sink. He leaned against it, his body a golden line from head to bare toes. He was remarkably beautiful in the morning, with the early morning glow behind him, the sleep softness still around his eyes, and the wild hair. Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He stood up and in two strides, he had wrapped his arms around John, breathing him in. John put his arms around Sherlock and squeezes tight. 

‘Clingy,’ he said in a whisper against Sherlock’s neck, then placed a chaste kiss there, sending shivers up and down Sherlock’s spine. 

Sherlock started to nibble at John’s ear just because he could. He licked the inner shell of John’s ear and nuzzled the soft hair on his temple with his nose, breathing in those scents that made John… Something spicy and warm, but inexplicably sweet and irresistible. John hummed and moved his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, drawing small circles with his fingers, making him lose it a little. 

Then John pulled back slightly, pressing a hand on Sherlock’s chest, his thumb almost grazing his right nipple. He looked as flushed as Sherlock felt, and smiled that delicious smile of his, looking at Sherlock with dark eyes. 

‘Let’s take it slow, hm? Savour it a little…’ he whispered in a husky voice that made all of Sherlock’s blood go straight south. He leaned in and pressed a lingering yet chaste kiss on Sherlock’s jaw. ‘Get to know each other a bit better… What do you think?’ 

Sherlock couldn’t remember his reply, though it was probably something along the lines of whimpers and gibberish, as right after he found himself splayed on his back on John’s sofa, covered from head to toe with miles of warm, pliant John, writhing onto him, kissing his neck, his shoulders, his lips, with gusto and abandon, like the world was about to end and that’s all he wanted to do. And Sherlock followed suit, touching every surface of John his hands could reach, moaning into his kisses, grabbing onto his hair, pulling him back for more kisses that sometimes were only teeth and ravaging and almost sent him over the edge, and sometimes they were languid and sweet, all-consuming and blinding, mind-numbing, all he could focus on were John’s lips on him, John’s skin on his, John and him. He was enveloped in John’s scent, and they couldn’t make their breaths apart. Sherlock was breathless and yet he did not want to come up for air, afraid to wake up from this quasi-dream sequence of lust and, dare he say it, love. 

But he finally did, pull away to breathe. John was panting hard as well, and also smirking in a self-satisfied way that made Sherlock blush. John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s and ran a hand up and down his side, which somehow calmed them both down. Sherlock sighed, content, surprised to realise that just this was fine, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air, was absolutely fine, and John seemed to think so as well. It was freeing, this quiet contentment, because he didn’t have to make conversation or actively participate in activities, but they were still _together_. Sherlock had never felt that with anyone else before. 

Then John decided to lie fully atop him, his head resting on Sherlock’s chest, arms around his waist, and their legs were tangled together. John let out a pleasant sigh, burrowing in closer, then pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s chest and went back to his position. Sherlock smiled and put his arms around John. This was nice. It was most definitely, absolutely, utterly nice. 

-

 

Mr and Mrs Holmes (aka Mummy and Father) were happy to know he had made a new friend. He told them about John (the abridged version, without all the him fancying John bit) before asking to spend the weekend at his place in the city, studying. A white lie, really, but a white lie that had his parents over the moon. He had made a friend! Outside of school! Who was a responsible student! Definitely best friend material. So they allowed Sherlock to spend the (best of his life) weekend at John’s in Brixton. And they also insisted to have him over for dinner so they could get to know him better (by they of course Sherlock meant his mother, his father only sort of nodded and hummed in agreement at whatever she suggested), and so the Tuesday after The Weekend (every time Sherlock thought about the many hours spent lounging in John’s flat in nothing by their pants — sometimes less than that, even — just talking and laughing and kissing and _being_ , his heart skipped a beat and fireworks went off in his head) John knocked on the door to the Holmes household at six p.m. sharp, wearing a well-fitted green plaid shirt under a soft grey cardigan, dark jeans and blue Chuck Taylors, and carrying a bottle of wine. He smiled at Mrs Holmes and kissed her cheek, and he shook Mr Holmes’s hand and made a comment about the car parked by the kerb, which had Sherlock’s father grinning for the rest of the evening. All in all, he was lovely and endearing and an absolute delight. 

Of course, this was all under the strict friend area his parents believed they inhabited. In the Holmeses minds, John was helping guiding Sherlock into a more mature young adulthood and being his mentor as he started university — still five months away, but they’re eager that way. Never had it crossed their minds that it could be something more, and Sherlock didn’t know if he should tell them. He wouldn’t. Not tonight. 

By the time they cleared off the dessert dishes and tea cups, it was half past ten, and Sherlock mother tutted when John motioned to thank them and then leave. She insisted he stayed for the night because those tube stations could be very dangerous in the evenings, and Sherlock couldn’t agree more, though his eyes carried a more mischievous grin unlike his mother’s. John reluctantly agreed, as any polite young man would, only after declining at least thrice. 

‘You can stay in Mycroft’s bedroom, and I’m sure Sherlock has some pyjamas he can lend you,’ Mummy said, but it would not do. He was not going to allow _his_ John to spend one second in _Mycroft_ ’s room, of all places. Who knew what he was going to turn into after eight hours in that snake pit. 

‘Mummy, I’m sure Mycroft wouldn’t appreciate you putting guests in his room while he’s away,’ Sherlock said, catching the smirk John tried to hide after that statement. ‘John can stay in my room.’ 

His mother thought about for a minute, then nodded. ‘You are right, of course, Myc is very particular about his things… I hope you won’t mind sleeping on the floor, John,’ she said apologetically. John shot her that radiant smile of his and shook his head. 

‘Of course not, I’m grateful for your hospitality, Mrs Holmes,’ he said, and kissed her cheek once more. She blushed. 

Not twenty minutes later, they had retired to Sherlock’s bedroom, having brushed their teeth and put on their pyjamas — John’s was one of Sherlock’s baggier T-shirts, which stretched beautifully across his shoulders, and his own boxers. 

After he was certain his parents had retired to bed, Sherlock beckoned John over to his bed. It was a tight fit, but it was still perfect. John’s body perfectly fitting next to his, as Sherlock propped his head on John’s chest and looked up at his face. He was a bit flushed from the wine and loose-limbed from all the delicious food, and Sherlock loved him, so much it was scary. He decided he wouldn’t say it yet. 

‘So this is your room,’ John whispered, turning his head to look around. It felt intensely intimate, even after all the intimacies they’d shared, to have John in his space like this. These were his things, collected over many years, carefully curated. This room was his personality, it was the first room of his Mind Palace. Having John here made him, _them_ , more real, somehow. 

There were some posters on the wall, all framed. Periodic table, a drawing of a skull, the cover of _War of the Worlds_ , a portrait of Tesla, and one of Turing (‘you’re into tragically handsome scientists, then?’ John asked, full of mirth, when he noted he latter two). One of the walls was covered by a bookshelf, filled with books and folders. He had a desk for his home experiments, and by one corner was his violin. John looked back at him with an enormous amount of affection, and Sherlock felt his chest tighten. 

‘I like your room. It’s very you,’ he said. Sherlock gave a small smile. 

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But no more talking,’ he added, pressing in closer and eliminating the distance between them. John’s lips were warm and soft, and his mouth tasted of the peppermint toothpaste he borrowed. They kissed slowly, deliberately, for ages, just feeling exploring each other’s mouths, licking and sucking on lips and tongues, then Sherlock moved first, because he wanted to take the lead today. He was to _taste_ John today. He kissed down John’s jawline, licking every inch, then down his neck, mouthing John’s pulse point, feeling it quicken against his tongue. He helped John out of his T-shirt then his left hand moved to pinch John’s right nipple, and John almost moaned, but caught himself. They’d have to be quiet tonight, so so quiet, and the thought of watching John struggle not to yell in pleasure was dizzying. 

John hummed deep in his chest, a low and guttural sound, as Sherlock licked his left nipple and continued to roll the other between his thumb and index finger. His nipples were very sensitive, and he made the most delicious sounds if Sherlock licked him just so. 

He could now feel John’s erection pressing against his hip, and he was sure John could feel his against his thigh. They rutted against each other as Sherlock continued his ministrations on John’s nipples, getting him even more turned on. It was a sight to behold, a flushed John, one hand grasping the sheets of the bed, the other covering his mouth to quiet the inevitable sounds that left those kiss-swollen lips. He looked like a painting. 

His moan of Sherlock’s name was muffled through his hand, but it affected Sherlock all the same. He began mouthing the trail from John’s chest to just above the waistband of his underwear. With both hands, he slid down John’s boxers and threw them on the floor, then looked down at John’s beautiful specimen. He was still amazed with it, with how beautiful he found it, given that he even found his own penis a bit strange-looking. But John’s was perfect in every way, even the surrounding pubic hair, well-trimmed, dark blond and impossibly soft. Sherlock buried his nose in it, taking in where John’s essence was stronger, the scent making him salivate. 

Then he nuzzled John’s length, revelling in the tiny gasps and whimpers coming out from behind John’s hand as he stared down at Sherlock with half-lidded eyes — blues eyes now pitch black, heat emanating from them like laser beams right into Sherlock’s brain, firing synapses in an explosion of lights. 

The hand John was using to grasp the sheets found it’s way to Sherlock’s hair, touching him gently. Sherlock felt emboldened by the gesture, and licked a thick stripe from the base to the tip of John’s penis, settling briefly on the head to massage it with his tongue. He then took as much as he could in his mouth, bobbing up and down, then licking on the sides like an ice lolly. The skin of John’s cock was hot and dark, almost angry and so, so inviting. Sherlock continued. Licking, kissing, massaging. Then he took away his mouth to pump it with one hand, moving downwards to press kisses against John’s testicles, then taking them into his mouth, sucking them like candy. There was a distinct umami flavour to John’s skin that was at its strongest right here, almost overwhelming, and Sherlock wanted to bury himself in this sea of John. 

‘Oh, god,’ John whimpered, still clutching Sherlock’s hair. 

Sherlock moved back to John’s penis, kissing the head with abandon, tasting precum and sweat and his own saliva, then took him in again, bobbing up and down, and he could feel John trembling as he tried to keep his hips from thrusting into his mouth. So Sherlock pinned him down with both arms encircling his hips, and they were both splayed on the bed now, legs wide open, Sherlock sucking John off like there was no tomorrow. 

He then used his leverage to prop himself up and push John’s hips upwards, out of the bed, so that his bottom was turned to the air, and Sherlock stared at him, glistening, pink, trembling, waiting for his mouth. He kissed John’s testicles again, licked slightly, then moved on to press a feather-light kiss on his hole, and the pink ring pulsated in anticipation just as John let out another whimper from under him. Now Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, holding John down so he wouldn’t toppled over, hunched over his arse. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss again at his hole, and let his tongue out, tasting its surroundings, before darting in and out quickly, teasing. He did again, and a third time, before settling in and going at it with a wantonness he didn’t know he had. He tasted even more like John here, making Sherlock salivate more, want to lick more. And he did. He was addicted to this, to him. It was his ultimate drug. 

Finally, he exchanged his mouth for his fingers, two of them, in and out, in and out, and pulled John back down, fingers still working him, in and out, in and out, while his mouth went back to his erection, which was licking profusely. He was almost on the edge. So close now. Sherlock’s own erection was painfully hard, but he needed to see John come first. 

Sherlock licked John’s cock and his fingers worked his hole, and with a startled whimper that was almost a cry and a firm tug on Sherlock’s hair, John came in Sherlock’s mouth, tasting almost salty, slightly bitter, not entirely unpleasant. 

‘Oh my god…’ John moaned, looking down at Sherlock with a sated look about him. ‘That was… you were… oh my god…’ 

Sherlock chuckled, and crawled up to him, tasking John’s lips in his, and he was glad that he didn’t mind where his mouth had been. John hummed against his mouth and grabbed the hair behind his head, pulling him closer, and with his other hand he took Sherlock’s cock and started pumping. Faster and faster, occasionally massaging the head with his thumb. Sherlock was already very close anyway, just watching John having had a glorious effect on him. 

When he came, it was as startling as it was sudden, but he managed to quiet himself by burying his face against John’s neck. 

John held him through his orgasm, humming some song by his ear. They lay exhausted, limbs indistinguishable, naked bodies pressed together. Before another word of warmth or love could be said, they were both peacefully asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the Broken Bells, I put that in because they are one of my absolute favourite bands, and their sophomore album After the Disco is sexy af, especially the song in this chapter. And also the song "Control," both of which you should definitely check out if you haven't yet.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, see you next chapter!
> 
> Cheers x


	7. it's been undeniably dear to me

Sherlock and John dates over the next few weeks. His parents thought they were only friends, and his school bullies had finally given up on taunting him after they realised they were never going to get a reaction out of him. And so the days passed one by one, John and Sherlock texting as often as they could — whenever Sherlock wasn’t at school and John wasn’t working — and sometimes Skyping each other for hours on end. They went out on weekends together, and Sherlock’s weekly outing with Irene now included John as well. Sherlock felt truly happy for the first time in his life. 

With graduation approaching, there was a strange buzz around the final year students. Sherlock never really enjoyed the school environment, so he was happy it was finally over. By Friday, he would be a free man. But the other students all had a sense of school spirit, and the final week was spent signing school shirts and saying goodbyes and having small parties with teachers, thanking them for all the work over the years. It was incredibly annoying. 

Irene approached him on Tuesday during lunch time. He was sitting alone on a table by the windows of the cafeteria, pushing food around on his plate. She sat across from him and smiled. 

‘Hey, sweetie,’ she said. He gave her a small smile back but didn’t say anything. ‘Nostalgia hitting in?’ 

At that, Sherlock snorted. Nostalgia for this place? What a joke. 

‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘I’m just grateful it’s finally over.’ 

‘Well, there’s uni after.’ 

‘University won’t be like this,’ he said, with more certainty than it was allowed for someone who had never actually been to university. 

‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked, and he shrugged. 

‘John says it’s better. People are less concerned about who you are and what you do. Besides, where I’m going everyone will be entirely focused on science, which is how it should be,’ he told her. Irene laughed softly. 

‘I hope he’s right, then. I _will_ miss you, though. Scotland is so far away!’ she said. Irene was going to St Andrews because her family was a legacy, and it was indeed a very good university. She was always going on and on about how boring it would be to live all the way in _Scotland_ , especially in St Andrews, being such a small town. 

‘I’m sure you’ll be in London a lot. I’ll still leave my Thursday nights open,’ he said and Irene beamed. She moved over the table to hug him and for once he let her. He really would miss Irene, she was his only true friend in this school, and he genuinely enjoyed the time spent with her, even though she was always teasing him (and now John.) 

She sat back in her chair and composed herself. ‘Okay, back to being cool,’ she said with a wink, and Sherlock chuckled. 

\- 

Graduation wasn’t a big deal. His parents came, and they let Sherlock invite John, who smiled brightly, as if happy just to be there. Mycroft didn’t come because he was busy at work probably starting another way in South East Asia. It was a sunny say, no clouds in the sky, perfect for taking photos of you spawn as they closed this chapter of their life to start another one. It was all very cliche, and Sherlock couldn’t wait to leave. 

After the ceremony was over and names were read and hands were clapped and things were said, it was finally, finally over. Everyone started to mingle, parents talking to fellow parents, no-longer-students hugging and talking excitedly about their summer plans. Sherlock stood by his parents, who were chatting animately with John about university. John looked beautiful today, a halo of gold all around him. He was wearing well-fitted dark grey slacks and a surprisingly nice navy blazer with brown cardigan and a white and blue plaid shirt underneath, topping it off with a lovely dark brown tie and brogues. Sherlock was so used to seeing him in T-shirts and casual outfits, he never knew he was so stylish. It made him slightly feverish looking at John like this. 

John gesticulated as he explained something to his father, his hands precise, illustrating his point. His hair was made almost platinum blond by the sun, and his eyes were wide, as they always were when he was talking about something he was passionate about. God, he was beautiful. Sherlock wanted to, no, _needed_ to remove that suit, piece my piece, like unwrapping a parcel. 

He calmed himself down before he got an erection in the middle of the school gardens. 

‘Do you have plans for the rest of the day, Sherlock?’ asked Mummy, pulling Sherlock out of his daydreams. He cleared his throat and shook his head. 

‘Not really,’ he said. 

‘I was actually thinking of treating Sherlock to a graduation lunch? If that’s okay, of course,’ John said, smiling that angelic smile of his that got anyone to do anything he wanted them to do. Mummy was entirely smitten with John, of course, so she agreed immediately. Sherlock deduced that she thought John was helping Sherlock become more responsible, more adult, but she had no idea they were romantically involved. He still didn’t know what his parents would think of that. 

‘We’ll just leave you to it, then,’ said Father, ‘ you don’t need us old folk putting a dampener on your fun.’ He laughed and clasped a hand on John’s shoulder. So his parents left (with a kiss on the cheek from Mummy for both of them, of course), and Sherlock and John were alone, finally. John winked at him and walked away, expecting to be followed. Sherlock walked a step behind, waiting to see where John was taking them. 

They reached the main road, away from the celebrations and congratulations, and John finally turned to face Sherlock. He was a few inches shorter and had to look up, but that never seemed to bother him. He cupped Sherlock’s face with both hands and gently pulled him closer Their lips touched, chastely, softly. Sherlock felt himself grow warmer and sighed into the kiss. They pulled apart, smiling. 

‘I’ve been wanting to do this all morning. Congratulations, love,’ John said. He had taken to calling Sherlock “love” lately, and it never failed to make Sherlock’s heart skip a beat. They resumed their walk, but John laced their fingers together and shot Sherlock a playful wink, to which Sherlock blushed. They held hands all the time, just never so overtly on the streets, and the feeling of being so… _out_ like this was exhilarating, leaving him slightly breathless. 

‘Where are you taking me to lunch, then?’ Sherlock asked. John hummed. 

‘My place,’ he said, grinning widely at Sherlock. ‘I made a lasagne this morning, and I figured we could have lunch together then I would show you just how proud I am of you,’ with that, he let go of Sherlock’s hand and snaked that arm around his waist, pulling flush against his side. Yes, this would do very nicely indeed. Sherlock chuckled. 

‘That sounds rather perfect, actually,’ he said. Not only did the idea of spending time along with John always made him excited, but Sherlock was also feeling overwhelmed as he always did during long periods of time around a large number of people. Just the thought of a quiet lunch alone with John made him relax immensely. 

‘See? I know you,’ John said. 

 

The first thing they did upon arriving in John’s flat was remove their jackets, ties, shoes and socks. John also took off his cardigan and shirt, leaving only his undershirt, a white vest that accentuated his muscles in the most beautiful ways. Sherlock sat as usual on the kitchen table and watched as John reheated the lasagne and set the table for them. He then gave Sherlock a mischievous look as the tiptoes towards the refrigerator. 

‘What are you doing?’ asked Sherlock, amused. John opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of what looked like Champagne. 

‘To celebrate,’ he said. ‘I know I said I wouldn’t buy you alcohol until you turned eighteen, but this is a special occasion, and you’re just a couple of weeks away anyway, so I figured why not.’ He smiled widely and went to pop open the bottle. Sherlock stood up and watched him and his precise ministrations. It was such a large expense on John’s limited budget, and Sherlock was suddenly overwhelmed by his feelings for this man. No one had ever cared about him like this. It was more than unconditional parental love, it was something more deliberate, something borne out of similarities and differences and conversation. It was true and beautiful, and as Sherlock observed John, _his_ John do something so sweet for him, just because he was proud of him for doing something so trivial as graduate secondary school, he couldn’t help but thing _I love him, I love John Watson_. 

The bottle opened with a pop, startling Sherlock, both with its noise but also John’s laughter following it. John had two empty jam jars he used as cups ready to pour the champagne in, and after he poured them both equal measures, he raised his and tilted it towards Sherlock. 

‘To you, Sherlock. The wisest, most wonderful man I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,’ he said. Sherlock blinked a few times, surprised by the earnest words. ‘I am so proud of you, love, and I know you will do great things in the future. And I can only hope that I’ll still be there to witness you transform into the man you will become.’ He clinked their glasses and took a sip. Sherlock didn’t. He couldn’t. He put his glass down and took the one step towards John, closing the distance between them with a bone-crushing hug. He buried his head in the crook of John’s neck and breathed in, taking in the scents that made up John. He was wearing cologne today, something spicy but sweet, not overwhelming, just bring out the notes of his own natural scent. It was almost decadent, and Sherlock wanted to lick him. 

‘Are you okay, love?’ John asked, closing his arms around Sherlock’s back, glass still in hand. Sherlock nodded. 

‘I love you,’ he said, abruptly, before he could stop himself. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, even though it was true. It was still far too early. Wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure. John has frozen. Even his breathing was still, and right then Sherlock knew he’d done something wrong. He moved to pull away, but John’s arms kept him there. 

‘You…’ John said. He finally moved, sighing deeply, his breath warm and humid against Sherlock’s neck. ‘You love me.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

He pulled back and once again cupped Sherlock’s face in both hands. He liked to do that a lot. Sherlock liked it too, since he got to look straight into those deep blue eyes that were as warm as the Summer days were long. Right now they were almost black, John’s pupils were so dilated. He could see himself in those eyes like a mirror, but he could also see John’s emotions flashing through them. Confusion. Nervousness. Excitement. Happiness.

‘Good,’ John finally said after months, years, millennia of looking into Sherlock’s eyes and staring into his soul. ‘Good. Because I do, too. Love you, that is,’ he said, slightly awkward, as if he had never said it to someone before. Realising that lit a spark somewhere inside Sherlock, because while John was the first person he’d ever kissed and had sex with, Sherlock was the first person John had ever said ‘I love you’ to, and that was far more precious than any physical acts. His past, pre-John self would have rolled his eyes at the sentiment, but right now, at this moment, staring into John’s ardent, passionate blue eyes, all he could feel was an inexplicable amount of joy. 

\- 

The week after graduation, John invited Sherlock to have dinner at his aunt’s house in Surrey, to which he had said yes hesitantly. John always spoke complimentary of his aunt, telling him stories of her antics, her passion for painting and enjoyment of music and slightly unorthodox ways of teaching them lessons of responsibility, humility, self-worth. She seemed like a nice person, and John told him she was extremely accepting (and encouraging) of her niece’s and nephew’s sexualities. So he was being officially introduced as _boyfriend_ for the first time — he hadn’t gotten around to meeting John’s friends yet, by his insistence, though John seemed eager to show him off for some reason — and the idea made him nervous. What if she hated him? What if she told John he wasn’t good enough? What if he committed some irredeemable _faux pas_? What ifs plagued his mind from the very moment of the invite. 

It was a Thursday afternoon when they took the train to Bel Watson’s house. From the train station, they took a cab and arrived at the house a little before six. Sherlock looked down at himself as they approached her front door, checking his outfit for the umpteenth time. Dark grey slacks, black brogues, light blue shirt and black blazer. No tie. Too formal? Too casual? John had said many times that he looked just fine, but he himself was wearing dark wash jeans, a pair of Converse trainers, a white shirt and a moss green cardigan, so Sherlock was definitely overdressed, but there was no time to change and he really, really wanted to make a good impression. _Is the air thinning around us? Is this was a panic attack feels like?_ Sherlock thought as he stared wide-eyedly at the door as John rung the doorbell. John squeezed his arm and shot him an encouraging smile, but to no avail because Sherlock was definitely having a panic attack now. _Breathe, breathe_. 

‘It’ll be fine, love. Don’t worry,’ John said, and the front door opened, revealing a smiling middle-aged woman. Bel Watson greeted them with her biggest smile, which resembled John’s a lot. She had dark blonde hair and high cheekbones, and creases around her eyes, which were full of mirth and youth. There were laughter lines around her mouth and she had the same perky nose as John did, only hers was smaller. Her hair was shoulder-length and arranged in a messy braid. She had lots of piercings on her ears, and seemed like an eclectic person in general, as she was wearing a colourful ensemble of patterns and textures that would have been hurtful to the eye were she a less genuine-looking person. Sherlock could see even before she spoke why John loved her so much. 

‘John, darling! Welcome home!’ she exclaimed in a sing-song voice. She went straight in to hug John tightly, clearly having missed him. He hugged her back with similar enthusiasm, and Sherlock watched, feeling slightly awkward as he often did in similar social situations. He moved his overnight bag from one hand to the other, fidgeting slightly on his feet. 

‘And you must be Sherlock,’ she said, letting go of John suddenly and placing her hands os his arms, staring him up and down. She smiled at him, that mega-watt smile that he knew so well from more-chapped lips, and moved forward to hug him. ‘Golly, aren’t you a tall one!’ she said with her head propped on his shoulder. She had to stand on his tip-toes to reach that far up. 

‘It is very nice to meet you, Mrs Watson,’ Sherlock said, applying the manners his mother had taught him. Bel Watson pulled back and gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

‘Nonsense, you are to call me Aunt Bel, like Johnny here, I’ll hear none of it,’ she said, shooting him a wink, and inviting them inside. John took his bag from him and placed them both by the front door, then guided Sherlock to the kitchen, where Aunt Bel was finishing up dinner. 

Her house was just as eclectic as her. There were pictures and knick-knacks of all manner of things and cultures. The floors were covered in beautiful patterned rugs, and the bookshelves filled with large photography books. The colours were warm and inviting, and Sherlock felt instantly at home. As they entered the kitchen, they were surrounded by the scents of herbs and spices. He suddenly felt hungry. 

Aunt Bel was stirring a pot. She grinned at them and beckoned them to sit by the stools at the kitchen bar. 

‘John, darling, why don’t you pour us something to drink?’ she asked. John obliged. He went to the refrigerator and got out a bottle of wine for himself and his aunt, and a bottle of Appletiser for Sherlock. He placed the glass bottle in front of Sherlock with an accompanying glass, and poured himself and his aunt some red wine. Sherlock realised there was music playing somewhere, a sitar concoction that was surprisingly pleasing. 

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock said as he opened the bottle of his drink. He wondered if John had called ahead to inform his aunt of this preference of Sherlock’s, or if they were just an Appetiser-drinking family. 

John smiled and sat back on his stool, taking a sip of his drink. 

‘So, how have things been?’ he asked Aunt Bel. She shrugged and closed the lid on the pot. 

‘Good, good. We sold five paintings this past week,’ she said, then turned to Sherlock. ‘I manage an art gallery,’ she explained. Sherlock nodded. 

‘They have beautiful art there, I think you’d like it,’ John said. ‘Weren’t you having an exhibit of paintings of Victorian medical practices?’ he asked Bel, who nodded. 

‘Yes! It’s been very popular!’ she said. ‘Are you a fan of art, Sherlock?’ 

‘Hm. I…’ he glanced over at John, who just nodded encouragingly at him. ‘I, erm, I… yes. A bit.’ _Damn him and his stupid shyness!_ He took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Depends on the art, I suppose,’ he finally managed. Bel laughed. 

‘A man of particular tastes! I like it,’ she said with a wink. John chuckled beside him. 

‘Particular indeed,’ John said. ‘He prefers music to paintings, though, right?’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘Yes. Classical music.’ 

Aunt Bel leaned against the counter beside the stove, intertwining her fingers in front of herself. ‘Really? Classical?’ 

Sherlock nodded again. ‘Bach, Brahms, Rachmaninoff, Strauss,’ he listed some of his favourites. ‘Vivaldi is good, but slightly overrated. Beethoven is child’s play.’ Bel smiled widely at him. 

‘How wonderful, you are,’ she said. ‘You must be really hating this then?’ she asked with a smirk, pointing at the iPod she had hooked up with speakers next to the fridge, from which the music was playing. Despite his personal preferences, Sherlock found himself enjoying this foreign sounds. 

‘I quite liked it, actually. Perhaps not on a regular basis, though,’ he said, and Bel laughed with gusto. John smiled at him, and took his hand in his, giving it a squeeze. 

After a while in the kitchen, the food was ready. Aunt Bel had made Piedmontese risotto with roasted lamb and a side of roasted vegetable crumble. Everything looked scrumptious and savoury, and Sherlock felt his mouth water unexpectedly. He had never been big on food in general, preferring bland flavours over anything overwhelming, but there was something about the combination of scents and textures, and the decor around him with the music in the background that made him feel hearty and hungry. He helped John set the circular table in the lounge/dining room, which was covered with a deep maroon tablecloth. The plates were all mismatched patterned ceramic. Sherlock noted that his mother would have hated all of his, she had this need for uniformity that meant all of their china and silver matched, and so did their glasses. Looking around, Sherlock suddenly realised where John’s predilection for turning jam jars into glasses came from, and it made it all the more endearing. 

They all sat around the table, and Aunt Bel served them before herself, and they tucked in instantly. The flavours exploded in his mouth, and he almost let out a moan. 

‘This is delicious, Aunt Bel,’ John said through a mouthful of rice. Sherlock nodded in agreement, chewing a mouthful of lamb. 

‘Thank you, darling. I’ve been watching a lot of cooking shows lately,’ she said. ‘They are so entertaining, and then you learn things!’ she laughed, and John joined in. Sherlock watched them both interact with fondness. There was an air of comfort around them that spoke of familiarity and a deep love bond, which he sometimes felt lacked in his own family. Mycroft had never laughed at dinner, and his mother would never watch cooking shows. If his father spoke at all during meals, it was about the state of politics or business, never about things like music or books or television. It was a restraining environment, which made this moment right now feel both freeing and claustrophobic at once. 

‘It’ve very good,’ Sherlock praised, polishing off his vegetables. Bel smiled indulgently at him, like he was special to her somehow. The glow burning inside him certainly made him _feel_ special. 

‘Well, don’t fill up just yet, because I got some cheesecake at the bakery you like, John, for dessert,’ Bel said, a conspiratorial tone in her voice. John perked up instantly, clearly excited about this treat. Sherlock smiled to himself, as he often did whenever he saw John get excited about something. It was an endearing look that made him look much younger, and made his eyes sparkle in beautiful ways. 

‘Well, then what’s this whole dinner nonsense about?’ John asked and Bel let out a barked laugh. Sherlock joined in. 

 

Dessert had been just as wonderful as dinner, and Sherlock enjoyed the dish though not as much as John, who had two slices, did. Now they were lounging on the sofa, bellied took stuffed to do anything but lie back and watch the movie playing on TV. They had both offered to help clean up, but Aunt Bel had shooed them away, saying they were too tired to do anything properly. Film4 was having an action marathon, and so they tangled themselves on the sofa and watched Tom Cruise ride a motorcycle in a food-stuffed stupor. 

‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ asked John. Sherlock was resting his head on his chest and John was massaging his curls with his right hand and had his left behind his head. He looked utterly contented and relaxed — it was a good look on him (not that there was a bad one.) Sherlock turned upwards to face him, and smiled. 

‘Yes. It’s been a great evening,’ he said. John smiled widely at him and placed a kiss on his nose. 

‘Well, that’s good! Tomorrow we can go to the gallery before leaving for London,’ John said. Sherlock nodded. 

‘I suppose. Though it feels silly to go back when there’s so much good food to be had here,’ Sherlock teased. John chuckled. 

‘That’s grand coming from someone who never eats more than the required daily calorie intake,’ he said, teasing also. ‘I’ll have to report this appetite of yours to the nonchalant police.’ He squeezed Sherlock’s side, making him squeal, and laughed. Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him and poked him on his side as well, which only made John laugh harder. 

_I really do love him_ , thought Sherlock, in Aunt Bel’s sofa, resting on John’s chest as he laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed if you've been following this that I've added chapter titles now. I usually don't do that, but figured why not. They are all lines from songs by The Shins, if you're interested. 
> 
> Again, many thanks. 
> 
> Cheers x


	8. grey remains of a friendship scarred

As per Sherlock’s request, there had been no birthday celebrations. He allowed his parents to take him out for dinner, and John to give him one present, but that was it. Sherlock despised birthdays, such arbitrary celebrations that had no meaning. Why celebrate something over which you have no control? Nonsense, it all was. 

On the day of his birthday, Sherlock woke up in John’s bed. He’d been spending a lot of time at John’s flat, and his parents didn’t mind because a) they liked John and thought he was a good influence, and b) they didn’t know they were having very gay sex almost every night. Sherlock wished he could work up the courage to tell his parents, but today was definitely not the day to do that. He was sure his mother had mad reservations at a very exclusive and expensive Michelin-starred restaurant in London for the family, and it would be uncomfortable and anticlimactic to come out right as his parents were getting ready for the annual birthday toast. 

He finally decided to open his eyes and take in the room. John’s side of the bed was empty, but still warm, and Sherlock stretched an arm over it, then turned over on the bed, facing the kitchen, the sheets slipping away from his waist. John was in the kitchen, clad only in his pants, placing an omelette on a tray. He looked over at Sherlock’s direction and seeing that he was awake, smiled widely at him. 

‘There’s the birthday boy,’ he said amusedly, his voice still rough from sleep. His hair was mussed at the top and his eyes were still a bit red, and he looked delectable. Sherlock was about to get up to go over to him, but John beat him to it, picking up the tray with the omelette, raspberry juice, toast and jam over to him. He hummed the happy birthday song under his breath as he approached the bed, and Sherlock could see his Adam’s apple bob when he took in all of Sherlock’s unselfconscious nakedness sprawled on the bed. 

‘This is unnecessary,’ said Sherlock, but deep down he appreciated it. There were no candles to be seen, no hats, nothing silly, just a simple breakfast and a near-naked John, and that was more than enough for Sherlock. 

‘Hey, it’s not everyday you turn eighteen, is it? Now I can finally get you that drink,’ John said with a wink and a chuckle. Sherlock smiled and sat on the bed as John placed he tray by his side. ‘So, what do you think? Too much?’ 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘This will do nicely, I should think.’ John snorted. 

‘Okay, Lord Grantham, I’m glad you like it,’ he said, clearly making a pop culture reference that Sherlock didn’t understand. ‘No? Nothing about the Crawleys in there?’ 

‘I’ve no idea what you are talking about…’ 

John beamed as he shook his head. ‘Incorrigible,’ he said, fondly, stroking Sherlock’s cheek with a thumb, and pressing a chaste peck to his lips. ‘Now eat your special breakfast.’ 

Sherlock huffed and nodded. ‘Fine, fine.’ He ate calmly, quietly, as John watched him with a happy smile. They stayed in silence as Sherlock ate, but it was comfortable, and Sherlock was thankful for it. Somehow John noticed he was starting to feel full and decided to help by picking on the untouched bits of omelette and toast. It was all absurdly domestic. 

After a few minutes, the food had been almost entirely consumed, and John took the tray back to the kitchen, then walked back to the bed. 

‘So what do you want to do today?’ he asked eagerly. John was a _special occasions_ person. He liked birthdays and going away parties and housewarming parties. He loved Christmas and Halloween and Bonfire Night. He went up to Scotland during New Year’s for Hogmanay and he bought special little Union Jack flags for royal jubilees. It was an endearing trait that Sherlock had come to love in these past weeks they’ve been together. But today, he didn’t want to go out, he didn’t want to put on a façade he’d have to keep until after dinner with his parents. He wanted to stay here, with John, together, until he absolutely had to leave. 

‘I want you. In here. With no pants, please,’ he said, unusually brave. It had nothing to do with his age and all to do with his hunger for John and his hatred for those ridiculous pants keeping him away. John laughed, but obliged, sliding those navy blue briefs off and throwing them away haphazardly. He was glorious bathed in the yellow sunlight streaming in from the window. His skin radiated warmth, his fine blond hair was like a halo around him, and his eyes sparkled with brilliant mischief. His penis was flaccid, resting proudly, a dark brown in stark contrast against the pale golden of John’s smooth skin.

John walked back over to the bed, resting one knee on the mattress, then crawling his way towards Sherlock. His eyes were burning with the need Sherlock knew was reflected in his own. It made no sense that he had this desire for John as they’d had sex not ten hours ago, and yet. There they were, already wanting more. 

Somehow, John had gotten Sherlock to lie on his back, straddled his stomach and bent down to press hungry, open-mouthed kisses to his neck, eliciting moans from Sherlock’s throat. Then he licked upwards, up and up until he was pressing kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, and finally, _finally_ , their lips met, wanton and desperate. John’s mouth tasted of raspberry jam, and there were a few crumbs on the corner of his lips which Sherlock liked away, moaning again at the feel of John’s skin pressed against him, John’s chest on his, John’s penis brushing against his abdomen, those muscular legs pinning him down. Every inch of Sherlock was burning with need to touch John everywhere, and he wrapped his arms around John’s back to pull him closer as they deepened the kiss. 

Sherlock’s hands explored the hard planes of John’s back, muscles shifting under his hot skin as he kissed Sherlock more urgently. It was more teeth than tongue as this point, and the ache on his lips went straight to his groin, making him harder every second John’s skin was pressed against his. 

‘J _ohn_ …’ Sherlock moaned again, long and slow, and John all but growled against his lips. He pulled away and rested their foreheads together, and Sherlock saw that John’s eyes were black with desire. And for _him_ of all people. After all this time, the thought still surprised him. John was panting, and so was Sherlock, and their breaths were mingling between them, puffs of warmth making Sherlock’s neck sweat. He dragged his nails gently across John’s back and watched him arch his back and nearly meow at the sensation. He was beautiful like this, breathless and bare and lustful. 

‘What do you want?’ John asked softly, then gulped, and let out a breath. Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted right now. 

‘Lie back,’ he said, and John complied, lying on his back on his side of the bed — technically, every side of the bed was his because Sherlock didn’t actually live here, but in his own private thoughts he imagined a life with John right in this place, reading together naked, cooking together, just existing in the same space, and he was happy — and waiting for further instructions. Sherlock said nothing, instead he crawled over John, facing the opposite end of the bed, and lowered himself until his face was inches away from John’s almost-fully-erect penis. He felt more than heard John gasp behind him, and then felt two arms skate around his behind, pulling him close, and he could tell John was waiting for his lead. 

He stared at John’s erection, that beautiful creature that never failed to surprise him. It was almost furiously purple now, and throbbing at the base. The shaft was stiff and the head was glistening, and Sherlock licked his lips before diving in for an initial taste. He felt John go in as well, and he was almost overwhelmed with sensations. The decadent concentrated scent of John, the bittersweet taste of him on Sherlocks tongue, the surprisingly smooth texture of his skin against his lips, as well as the wet heat cradling his testicles, and the finger gently massaging his hole. He moaned yet again, and sucked the head of John’s erection fully into his mouth, massaging the shaft with his hand. Behind him, John continued his ministrations, now pumping his penis as well as, well, snogging his testicles and massaging his sphincter with his index finger. John hummed against his skin, sending vibrations up Sherlock’s body. He could hardly breathe, he was so aroused, and yet he never wanted to stop. 

Then John pulled at his leg, flipping them over so that they were both on their sides, and took all of Sherlock into his mouth. Sherlock whimpered around John’s erection, then followed suit, licking up and down, then bobbing his head as he took as much as he could in. John sucked him off and squeezed his testicles _just so_ , and Sherlock licked him again, tasting the delicious flavours of John skin mixed with his precum. He could feel his orgasm building as John picked up his pace, and as Sherlock began massaging John’s testicles as well, he could feel John almost going over the edge. 

With a loud moan and a squeeze of John’s leg as warning, Sherlock came, in John’s mouth, holding onto him for dear life. That was the tipping point for John, who came right after, with a muffled cry, as he sucked Sherlock through his orgasm. 

Afterwards, sated and satisfied, they lay back, sprawled and tangled, breathing heavily, glistening with sweat. John caressed Sherlock’s thigh by his head, and Sherlock buried his face on the crook of John’s left knee.

‘Happy birthday, love,’ John said, and Sherlock smiled. 

\- 

They made him wear a tie to dinner. He hated ties, hated fancy restaurants, hated having to behave in the proper way for the sake of other people. And yet. Here he was. Sitting on a table for four across from Mycroft, between Mummy and Father. The restaurant had just been reviewed as one of the best in London, receiving its third Michelin star. It served French fusion food, or some such nonsense, and there was a tasting menu that cost an absurd amount of money and was probably not even going to come close to taste as scrumptious as Aunt Bel’s food. He stared blankly at his half-full wine glass, tuning out the inane conversation Father and Mycroft were having about the Tories. Mummy was looking at the menu, trying to engage him in conversation, but it was boring. This whole thing was boring. He wanted to go home. 

Their waiter reappeared and refilled the empty glasses — only Mummy’s and Father’s — then walked away. Father turned to him and looked him up and down. 

‘So, Sherlock, how was your day?’ he asked. Sherlock hoped he didn’t blush at the question. Telling his parents he 69’d his boyfriend after his morning breakfast was probably not a good idea, or even a good way to come out. Instead, he shrugged. 

‘It was fine. John gave me an early edition of _Treasure Island_ he found at the shop in Cecil Court,’ he said, as if that explained what he’d done with his day. It was true, though. John had given him the book, then a blow job, then he fucked him against the kitchen counter. But, again, inappropriate dinner conversation probably. 

‘Well, that’s nice!’ Mummy exclaimed. ‘What a good friend, he is,’ she said. Sherlock noticed a spark in Mycroft’s eyes that betrayed how much he knew about Sherlock’s and John’s relationship. 

‘Indeed,’ Mycroft said. ‘A very good friend. I should very much like to meet him, from all I hear about him from Mummy.’ 

Sherlock glared at him. There was no way he was ever going to let Mycroft close to John. No way in hell. 

‘He’s very busy with work and his studies. We barely have time to hang out these days.’ Lies. Mycroft probably knew that. Would he out him? He wasn’t _that_ evil. Or was he?

Then Mycroft sat back and smiled diplomatically. ‘If you say so,’ he said, taking a sip of his white wine. 

Their first dish arrived, some sort of tuna tartare thing that tasted like the ocean in a bad way, but Sherlock ate anyway, so at least he could avoid answering questions. By now his parents were questioning Mycroft about his Very Important Career in politics. Sherlock was bored, but glad the attention was off him. He wished he could be with John. Or even just in his room with his violin. This evening was trying on his brain. 

After what felt like millennia, their last dishes had been cleared off the table, and Father was fending off Mycroft’s offering to help pay for the bill. 

‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘I’m taking my boys to dinner to celebrate.’ Mycroft nodded and removed his hand from his pocket. Sherlock knew he had no intention of paying, but that Father would be impressed by the gesture all the time. It meant he had his own money, he could afford _things_ , dinners, and someday maybe a house to support his family. It meant he was a man. 

After paying for the bill, they all got up to leave, putting on coats and blazers. In silence, they walked to the car, a new Mercedes Father had recently purchased. It was an opulent car, and Sherlock didn’t see the point of it. It was a large black sedan, and that’s all Sherlock knew about it. 

It was in the carpark that Mycroft said goodbye to them. He had work in the morning and was going to catch a cab to his flat. Mummy kissed him on the cheek and Father shook his hand. He simply gave Sherlock a look, one of those distinctly _Mycroft_ looks that annoyed him to no end, then left, jacket tails billowing in the warm summer breeze. After he turned a corner, Father unlocked the car. Sherlock sat at the backseat, buckled his seatbelt, and looked out the window as Father drove away to Richmond. His parents were instantly engaged in conversation about Mycroft and Mummy started discussing which daughters of her friends in her club would be a suitable match for her oh-so-successful oldest son, so Sherlock took out his iPod from his jacket pocket, put his earphones in and went about choosing some music to tune out his parent’s inane conversation. 

He went straight to the mix John had made for him. It was a bunch of indie and alternative rock bands he liked, of which Sherlock had never heard before, and John called it his introduction to pop culture. The music was surprisingly good — it was no Strauss, but he can hardly fault John for that — and Sherlock found himself listening to it whenever he just wanted something in the background. He pressed shuffle and an electronic-type song started, drums and bass and melodic synth. He sunk back on his seat, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander. 

-

After his birthday, Sherlock and John went out more frequently at night. They would go to that bar where they’d first met, but also pubs and clubs. John liked to dance, especially with Sherlock. And Sherlock liked it as well, so there they went, having an amount of fun which still surprised Sherlock. 

One Friday, John said that he had agreed to meet his friend Murray at a pub in Soho for drinks. It wasn’t a fully gay pub, so there were lots of straight people as well. But the atmosphere was buzzing with people enjoying themselves, laughing, chatting happily, and having drinks. They’d arrived before Murray, who texted John saying he’d be late. So they got a high table near the window, and John went to the bar to get them drinks. 

‘Here you go, Blue Moon, you weirdo,’ John said, placing the bottle in front of him. Sherlock huffed. 

‘You say that every time. I’m not weird for liking Blue Moon,’ Sherlock defended himself. John chuckled. 

‘It’s wheat beer!’ 

‘You say that, but barley is not that different from wheat. And they are fermented the same. You are just prejudiced against wheat. Very unfair, John, what would Aunt Bel say?’ he said playfully, and John flicked his shoulder. 

‘Hey, lovebirds!’ they heard from a few feet away. They both turned to find Bill Murray smiling widely at them. Murray had boyish features, soft cheeks, a perpetually mischievous smile, and a strong jaw. His eyes were a deep green and almond-shaped, crinkling slightly at the corners from all the smiling he did. He was a head taller than John, but less muscular, and liked to wear skinny jeans with DMs and plaid shirts over T-shirts. Tonight he was wearing a black T-shirt that read “World’s Okayest Bisexual” under a blue plaid. It was a bold statement to make about one’s sexuality, and Sherlock admired him for being so comfortable with himself like that. 

‘Hey, Bill!’ John greeted him, and they exchanged a hug.

‘Sherlock, how are you doing?’ Murray asked, extending a hand for him to shake. Sherlock smiled slightly and shrugged. 

‘Good, you?’ 

‘Fan-bloody-tastic,’ he said. Murray was the most enthusiastic person on the planet, and his joy was contagious, so Sherlock understood why John enjoyed spending time with him so much. John often told him that Sherlock was his best friend and boyfriend, and Murray was his brother. 

They were chatting excitedly now, Murray gesturing wildly with his hands while telling the story of why he was feeling so fantastic. Sherlock didn’t hear the words, just watched his boyfriend smile happily as he listened to his friend speak. John’s face was very expressive and showed his every emotion. He reacted accordingly every time, ever the good listener, and made the appropriate sounds and gasps whenever the story called for them. Sherlock watched the interaction with interest as slowly sipped his beer. 

‘So, yeah, it’s gonna be pretty fun,’ Murray finished. ‘What do you think, Sherlock?’ he asked. Sherlock was startled back into the conversation and stared back at John and Murray with wide-eyes. 

‘What?’ 

John laughed. ‘He was probably wrapped up in his Mind Palace,’ he explained and Murray raised an eyebrow. ‘Bill’s throwing a party next week, he was asking if you’d like to come, Sherlock.’ 

‘Oh. Hm. Sure. That’d be. Fun,’ Sherlock said, but even he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. Both Murray and John chuckled at his confusion. 

‘Great, it’s settled, then. Next Friday. My parents are visiting family abroad, so they let me use the house. A whole backyard, fairy-lights, mason-jar hipster affair is in the works,’ Murray said. John nodded. 

‘Sounds magical,’ John added, with a faux-wistful tone in his voice that made Murray smack him on the back of the head. 

Sherlock needed to use the restroom, so he excused himself from their table and walked over to the toilets, which were on the other side of the pub. On the way there, he bumped into someone, who turned out to be Greg Lestrade. They looked at each other with wide yes for a moment, before sobering up. 

‘Sherlock!’ Lestrade said. Sherlock had to fight internally to keep his eyes from rolling. 

‘Yes. Good evening, Lestrade,’ he said. Lestrade seemed to be hanging out with a few people from school Sherlock didn't know. Sherlock had pretty much avoided talking to any of his old “friends” since that day with Gregson, so it was a bit of a shock meeting Lestrade here of all places. 

‘How’ve you been?’ Lestrade asked. 

‘Fine. I’m here with John, so.’ 

‘That guy?’ he obviously referring to That Day, and Sherlock nodded. Lestrade smiled. ‘That’s good. I’m glad you found someone!’ 

Sherlock tilted his head, confused. ‘Excuse me?’ 

Lestrade sighed and scratched the back of his head. ‘Look. I’m. Damn, this is difficult — I’m sorry about how I dealt with the whole Gregson thing. It was stupid, he was stupid, and you were right. I should have backed you up, because I consider you my friend, and if it’s any consolation, I haven’t really spoken to Gregson since graduation,’ he said, in one breath, surprising Sherlock. 

Sherlock thought back to the times when Lestrade seemed to care about him, putting an arm around his shoulder, ruffling his hair, all the stuff John and Murray did to each other, all the stuff he saw boys do with their brothers on television and movies. Sherlock was never good at making friends or maintaining said friendships, but he could tell by his posture that Lestrade really meant what he said, and if he were honest with himself, Sherlock did miss him. So he did something he never thought he’d ever do. He smiled at Lestrade. 

‘Okay. I forgive you,’ he said. ‘I’m not good at feelings, so let’s just leave it at that.’ 

At that Lestrade laughed and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. ‘Sounds good, mate.’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘I’ll let you go back to your friends, then.’ 

‘Cool. But we should hang out sometime, yeah? You could introduce me to John?’ 

Sherlock felt himself blush. The only person to whom he had ever introduced John as his boyfriend was Irene, so this was a big step for him. 

‘Okay. I’ll text you,’ he said. Lestrade nodded and gave him a thumbs up, so Sherlock said a quick goodbye and left, walking to the restroom. He leaned against the wall by the men’s door and sighed. He wasn’t looking for emotional revelations and reunions tonight, but he was glad. Perhaps in this new chapter of his life, he could start approaching relationships differently, and with John by his side, he felt like he could do anything. 

Maybe he could invite Lestrade to the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> In case you were wondering, the T-shit Bill Murray is wearing is inspired by [this one](http://www.lookhuman.com/design/82367-worlds-okayest-bisexual), which I think is brilliant. 
> 
> Anyway, as per usual, please let me know what you think either in the comments or on [my blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com), where you can also find out the latest news regarding this fic. 
> 
> Cheers x


	9. I recall the sunshine as you were melting

On Monday morning, Sherlock’s parents had left to spend a week in Tuscany with friends from Father’s work, the Emsworths. They had a villa there, and many expatriate friends, as well as important Italian families, and his parents went there for a week every summer to drink wine and be rid of bothers. Which worked perfectly well for Sherlock, especially this year, because by Monday evening, he was having the snog of his life on his bed with John, who had come to stay a few days. 

On Tuesday morning, they decided to bask in the sunshine, lying on their backs on the grass in the back garden, Sherlock covered in mountains of sunscreen, and John shirtless, hair glowing against the sunlight. It was an unusually warm summer, and the last few days had been downright boiling, so they had opened most of the windows of the house before coming out to let the breeze in. Sherlock hated the sun, the burning sensation of it touching his skin, how hot it made his scalp feel under his hair, and the compromised vision coming from too bright sunshine. But looking at John right now and noticing how much he thrived in this environment almost made him wish the summer would never end. 

John’s eyes were closed under his sunglasses, Sherlock could tell because of the creases on the corner of his eyes poking out from under the shadow of the glasses. He had his arms behind his head, and was clad only in his boxers, one leg bent up and the other straight on the grass. He looked like he belonged there, like this was his house. A sort of giddy feeling unfolded inside Sherlock’s chest, and it took all his strength to stop himself from jumping on him right there. 

‘This is lovely,’ John said eventually, voice a little husky from disuse. Sherlock looked over at him, and hummed in agreement. ‘It’s hard to find a place to sunbathe like this in London.’ 

‘Yes. I suppose it’s nice you like to sunbathe…’ Sherlock added. John turned his head to face him, the crease on his forehead suggesting his eyes were inquisitive. 

‘You don’t like the sun?’ he asked, then snorted and turned back to face the baby blue sky. ‘I suppose it should have been obvious, given how pale you are. We can go back in, if you want.’ 

Sherlock was torn. He really wanted to go back inside, but the sight on John like this, so free, so beautiful, almost like his own personal Vitruvian Man, was too much for him to give up on. 

‘It’s okay…’ he said, finally. ‘I don’t mind so much.’

John let out a breath through his nose and sat up. ‘No, let’s go in. I’m starving, and the sun’s starting to get too strong.’ He stood up and extended a hand to help Sherlock up. Then they both walked (holding hands) inside the house through the double glass doors that led to the kitchen. After walking in, John removed his sunglasses and stretched his entire body, sending a jolt of electricity through Sherlock’s skin as he watched John’s lean muscles move elegantly under his golden skin, slightly pink from the sunlight. The hairs on his arms were so blond they were almost platinum, and his nose was covered in small freckles. God, he was beautiful. Sherlock shuddered. 

‘Breakfast, then?’ John asked, looking around the kitchen. His eyes landed on Sherlock, who was paralysed by the door, staring at him. John cocked an eyebrow and approached. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, voice an octave lower, sending more electricity up Sherlock’s spine. 

Sherlock gulped. ‘Hm. Nothing…’ He tugged on the hem of his T-shirt and shuffled on his bare feet. John was close enough now for Sherlock to capture that scent that was distinctively Morning John. Peppermint, soap, and the natural scent that came off his skin, something sweet and dark and mouthwatering. Sherlock looked down at John’s smile, and saw that his eyes were mostly dark, pupils dilated. Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s tongue as he licked his lips, and that was the last straw, really, before he pulled John by the neck and brought their lips together. 

John skin was still hot from the sun, especially his cheeks and hair, but he was soft and smooth, delicious against his tongue. He tasted like toothpaste and orange juice, and his skin felt like silk against his hands. Sherlock felt John’s hands roaming the skin on his back, pulling him closer until they were flush against each other, touching chest to chest, thighs to thighs. John’s hard nipples against his pectorals felt wonderful, almost overwhelming Sherlock’s senses with need and passion and want. 

Before he knew it, they had moved to the living room sofa, where John had sat him down against the cushions and was now straddling his lap, towering over him, lips exploring his neck, making him moan. John nibbled the skin below his earlobe, lips, tongue and teeth, as his hands continued to explore his chest, playing with his nipples. 

‘You feel amazing,’ John said. Sherlock moaned in response, grinding his hips upwards, that friction causing them both to shudder in tandem. 

‘Ditto,’ was all Sherlock could say, which made John laugh. 

‘Idiot,’ he said, and continued with his ministrations. 

Not much later, they were lounging on the sofa, taking a breath after all the excitement. John was lying against the cushions this time, and Sherlock was sprawled against his chest, drawing circles on his side while John played with the his curls. 

‘I like having you here,’ Sherlock said, somewhat shyly. He felt John smile against his forehead. 

‘I like being here. It’s a shame you haven’t told your parents yet.’ 

Sherlock sighed. Yes, well. He couldn’t. 

‘I can’t,’ he said. 

John squeezed him tighter. ‘I know. I’m not giving you an ultimatum or anything. You have to come out when the time’s right. It just sucks that you’re so uncertain about whether or not your parents will support you. Though I think I’d be in a similar position were my parents alive…’ 

Sherlock looked up, propping his chin on John’s chest. John was smiling sweetly at him, eyes filled with a tenderness that was unique to him. It warmed Sherlock’s chest in a way that had been unknown to him before they got together, and it made him feel like this was okay, all this uncertainty and doubt. Sometimes he couldn’t understand why he couldn’t be more assertive about his own life, why he had such a hard time making decisions, and John would tell him that it was okay to be that way, he was still young, he had a lot to learn. Not that John was much older, but that only meant the could relate and guide all at once, and that was one of the things Sherlock loved about him. 

He pressed a kiss to John’s chest and went back to his lying position, feeling John’s low chuckle ripple through his chest under his cheek. 

\- 

Eventually, John had to go back to London for work. He had picked up more shifts during the summer to save up money, which Sherlock somewhat resented because he wanted to be with John all the time, but he also understood, since John needed to pay for things like food and bills, dulls as they might be. 

Which was how he found himself alone on Wednesday afternoon. He had played the violin and given up, had started to read four different books, and even tried eating something, though everything he made tasted terrible, so he just gave up on that as well. He needed a distraction from John not being there, so he decided to text Irene. 

**To: Irene, 13:47PM**   
**BORED - SH**

Not even a full minute later, his phone pinged with a reply. 

**From: Irene, 13:47PM**   
**Come over, darling, we’re having a pool party xxx**

Sherlock thought about it for a minute. Playing third wheel while Irene and Kate snogged by the pool was not his idea of a good time. But neither was being bored at home, so he figured at least they might provide some mild entertainment for a while. 

**To: Irene, 13:49PM**   
**There in 20. - SH**

He went up to his room to change out of his pyjamas, choosing a pair of looser jeans and one of John’s T-shirts he had “borrowed” (read: shamelessly stolen off his bathroom floor.) He put on a pair of Converse and checked to see if his hair was okay. He had to foresight to bring a bathing suit — a pair of royal blue swim trunks his mother had bought him the year before. 

After checking he had his phone, wallet and keys, Sherlock left the house and walked the three blocks to the Adler's townhouse. He rang the doorbell after climbing the stoop and waited for Rosa to answer the door. 

‘Hello, Mr Sherlock,’ she greeted, motioning for him to enter. He smiled at her and asked about Irene. ‘Miss Irene is in the back with Miss Kate. Can I get you something to drink?’ 

‘No, thank you. I’ll just go to the back,’ he said and walked through the opulent living room — eggshell white wallpaper with a slight Victorian floral pattern, stylish leather sofas, a vintage coffee table, crystal chandelier hanging above the room, unlit since the white curtains were pulled back and the bay windows were letting in all the sunlight — towards the double doors that led to the back garden, which was obviously perfectly decorated with the best outdoor furniture money could buy. The pool wasn’t huge, since there wasn’t much room for it, but it was enough for a good swim. Not that the Adlers actually swam. What they did do was throw lavish garden cocktail parties and made the pool another decorative piece. 

Irene and Kate were in their bikinis — Kate in a blue two-piece thing, and Irene wearing a low-cut vintage-looking one piece and huge sunglasses — lying on pool lounge chairs. François Hardy played from the speakers on the small table between them. 

Sherlock cleared his throat to get their attention, and Irene looked over at him first, smiling. 

‘Sherlock, darling!’ she exclaimed, getting up from the chair effortlessly and gliding over to him, wrapping him in a hug and pressing a red kiss on his cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here! Put on your bathing suit and let’s chat!’ 

Without a word, Sherlock nodded and walked towards the outdoor lavatory to change into his trunks, then placed his clothes on the outside dining table, and walked towards the girls, taking a seat on the third lounge chair. Kate hadn’t even acknowledged his presence, though Irene was looking intently at him. 

‘What?’ he asked. 

‘Nothing, you just look different. Is that what happiness looks like on Sherlock Holmes? Very flattering colour, I must say,’ she said. Sherlock snorted. 

‘I’m not _un_ happy,’ he said, blushing slightly. He heard Kate bark a laugh from her chair and glared at her. Irene swatted at his arm. 

‘Leave off, ever since you met John you’ve been like a happy puppy. It’s cute, don’t downplay it. I’m just saying, I’m glad you’re happy, darling.’ She winked at him, then slid her sunglasses back over her eyes. Sherlock lay back on the chair and stared at the pool. 

‘It does feel better than perpetual annoyance and boredom,’ he said. Irene and Kate laughed, though Irene sobered, turning her head to look him over. 

‘How _are_ you enjoying this whole relationship thing? You’ve never been the most sociable person, I practically had to force our friendship,’ she asked. Her voice was inquisitive, not resentful. Kate was now watching them, eyes pinched almost close against the sharp sunlight. The sky above them was azure and cloudless. Sherlock sighed and the breeze that went through his hair made him shiver. 

‘I don’t…’ he stopped, collected his thoughts, before continuing. If he had to be honest, he didn’t know how he was enjoying it, he just knew he wanted to be around John all the time, he wanted to make him proud and happy. That’s all the wanted, and needed. ‘It’s not really… about the relationship itself, I think it’s just John. He’s… precious.’ 

Irene cocked an eyebrow. ‘He seems pretty bland to me,’ she said. Sherlock shrugged. 

‘From the very first time I saw him, I knew he was extraordinary, and the fact that he looks so ordinary is what makes him so special. To me, anyway. I still can’t quite believe he likes me back,’ he added with a small laugh. Irene pressed a hand on his arm, and he looked up at her.

‘Sweetie, that boy is utterly smitten with you, never doubt that.’ 

‘Seriously!’ said Kate, followed by a snort. Irene smiled back at her, and Sherlock took the moment to let the feeling of warmth spread over his chest. 

‘Now!’ said Irene, clapping her hands together. ‘Enough of this boyfriend talk, let me tell you all about Poppy Gildenhorn from the country club!’ 

Sherlock groaned as Irene began telling her story. 

\- 

Murray’s parent’s house was in Kent. It was a medium-sized two-storey cottage, with a sizeable back garden, and an overall quaint air to it. There was an orchard.

He and John had taken the train there in the afternoon, and brought overnight bags since Murray had offered them a room for the night so they wouldn’t have to go back to London late and risk missing the last train back. They walked from the train station — not a particularly short walk, but it had a nice view, according to John, and it was good for the fresh air, again according to John. It was about three in the afternoon, which was early for the party, but Sherlock supposed John had offered to help set up. 

Soon they were crossing the small gate at the cottage and John was knocking on the front door. Almost immediately, an exasperated-looking Murray opened the door and let them in. 

‘Hey, man, you okay?’ John asked. 

‘Yeah, just underestimated the time it would take to set this whole thing up,’ Murray explained. ‘You’re staying in Lucy’s bedroom by the way, first one on the right upstairs.’ 

John nodded. ‘Great. Sherlock, do you mind taking the bags upstairs while I help Bill here?’ 

‘Not at all,’ Sherlock said, already making his way up the stairs, carrying a bag on each hand. He had made sure to tell John to pack an outfit for the party, because even if it was a casual affair, it was no excuse to wear travel clothes. John had laughed at that and kissed him on the forehead, and Sherlock had blushed. 

“Lucy’s bedroom” was unexpected. The walls were painted in pastel violet and were covered in posters of boybands and films. There was a mostly empty bookcase in the far corner, and in the middle of the room, pressed against the wall facing the window opposite the door was the double bed, which was made with a matching duvet set that was a bit frilly, with ruffles and embroidered butterflies. He placed the bags by the foot of the bed and sat down, sighing deeply, mentally preparing himself for this event full of people he didn’t know. He had texted Lestrade about it, but he was busy with work tonight, so there would really only be two people he knew at this thing. 

It would be fine. At least that’s what he told himself. Mycroft was the one who was good at these social events, Sherlock just ended up talking about serial killers and freaking everyone out. He doubted Murray’s friends would enjoy listening to him describe H.H. Holmes’ methods. 

After a few minutes, he composed himself and walked out of the room, back downstairs to offer his help. 

He found John and Murray in the kitchen, playing Tetris with beer cases in the fridge.

‘Need help?’ he asked. John looked away from the fridge and smiled. 

‘Yeah, actually. Could you finish taking those chairs to the garden?’ he asked, using his head to point at the mismatched collection of chairs in the dining table and also scattered around the house. Sherlock nodded and proceeded with his task, leaving them to their impossible venture. 

The garden was already mostly set up. A few tables that would probably hold the food that was sitting at the kitchen counters. As promised, fairy lights were wrapped around trees and shrubs and tiki lights, though since the sun was setting at around 10PM these days, Sherlock was wondering when they would actually be able to turn them on. He placed the chairs in a somewhat random fashion, as per the general aesthetic he gathered. There was a picnic bench that he dragged towards the middle. He didn’t want it to be too symmetric, but his brain kept trying to form a pattern, which was more than a little annoying. 

In half an hour, he was finished, so he went back to the kitchen to see if they’d made progress with the beers, which they had. Murray was now removing lids and plastic wrappings off the food, although they wouldn’t put that in the back until much later. John came into the kitchen carrying a stereo. 

‘Hey! The garden looks great,’ he commented. Murray hummed in agreement, focused on his task. Sherlock basked in the praise, and watched John walk out into the garden and put the stereo right outside the glass doors so he could plug it in in the kitchen socket. 

‘So, how are we doing this? CDs? iPods? Spotify?’ John asked. Sherlock looked at Murray, who seemed to ponder. 

‘CDs are too boring… I suppose iPods would work. We can just plug them in and press shuffle or something,’ he said. John nodded. ‘Yours or mine?’ 

John shrugged. ‘I dunno… Do we want show-tunes or indie bands?’ he laughed and Murray stuck his tongue out. 

‘What about Sherlock’s?’ he asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I mostly own Classical music, which is not really appropriate for this type of party, I’m guessing.’ 

‘Very true,’ John agreed, watching him with fondness. ‘Shall I get mine, then?’ 

Murray nodded. ‘Fine. But I’d like to state on the record that there’s nothing wrong with show-tunes!’ 

‘Duly noted!’ exclaimed John as he ran upstairs. Sherlock laughed. 

 

By seven, the party was in full swing. The heat had let out a bit, and everyone was mingling, chatting, having a good time. The guests were mostly Murray’s classmates from uni, which meant they were also John’s classmates from uni. Some were old school friends and work friends, and everyone was generally very friendly. 

Sherlock wasn’t really socialising though. It wasn’t his favourite thing to do at parties, anyway. He liked to stand on the side and observe, trying to deduce people. Might be a little creepy, and he knew John would not approve, but it was what he liked to do, and he was going to own it. 

Right now he was standing by the stereo, the somewhat loud alternative rock song pounding against his eardrums, as he observed a group of young women by the drinks table. They were having an animated discussion about something, and the tallest one with cropped brown hair and lots of blue eyeshadow was clearly the alpha. The others were listening intently as she told her story, gesticulating around the bottle of beer on her right hand, clearly an experienced storyteller. The one on her right, shorter and a bit heavier, was smiling widely at her, eyes dancing as her friend relayed her tales. Was there something more behind that look? Sherlock wouldn’t assume without observing for longer, but if he did assume, he’d say yes. Something along the lines of pining, perhaps? But then again, he wouldn’t assume. 

He felt a touch on his elbow and turned his head to find a buzzed John grinning up at him. 

‘Deducing?’ he asked, tilting his head towards the group of girls. Sherlock felt himself blush. 

‘No…’ Sherlock lied, and John laughed. 

‘Yeah, right. You just gonna stand here the whole party? I wanted you to meet some of my friends.’ 

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. ‘If you want.’ 

John snorted. ‘Gosh, sound less excited, please.’ 

Sherlock flicked him on the nose, and was rewarded with the most adorable glare John could muster. 

‘Okay, let’s go,’ John said, dragging him by the arm towards the group he had been talking to before. Young men and women about the same age as John, youthful and mirthful, all talking over each other and having a great time. Sherlock felt instantly awkward. ‘Hey, everyone, this is Sherlock!’ John said, and they all looked at him. They smiled and let out a cheer in unison, welcoming him into the circle. 

‘So, you’re John’s guy, then?’ asked the guy standing next to him on the circle. He was about Sherlock’s height, had dark skin and large hazel eyes already surrounded by laugh lines. He had a bit of an accent, and Sherlock wondered when it would be polite to ask where he was from. 

‘Hm, yes. I suppose I am. Though around my circle, he is my guy,’ he said, not really thinking, but that got him a laugh, which made him preen slightly, since he didn’t have the habit of making people laugh on purpose. 

‘Funny guy! You’re Sherlock yes?’ he asked, then extended a hand. ‘I am Solomon, it is very nice to finally meet you. John is always talking about you,’ he added. 

Sherlock blushed. ‘Thanks. It’s, hm, nice to meet you as well. And all of John’s friends. I am not particularly good at these social things, though.’ 

‘You’re doing just fine,’ said the girl next to Solomon. She was very short and had her dark brown hair in a pixie cut. She also had a lip ring. She smiled gently at him as she shook his hand. ‘I’m Imogen,’ she said. 

Soon, Sherlock was introduced to the entire group. He found that along with Solomon and Imogen, everyone was very nice, and they all clearly held John in high esteem. A Sarah tried to give him the “if you break his heart I will kill you” speech, but John shooed her right away, taking Sherlock’s hand, landing at the right time as he began to drift off with how overwhelmed he was about this whole thing. 

A little after nine, someone started a dance off competition in the centre of the garden, so everyone gathered around as people started to try and out-dance each other. It was amusing, and it gave Sherlock an out from conversations he was already tired of. Watching these future doctors do ridiculous dance moves was indeed quite funny, and he found himself actually having a good time. 

Then, surprisingly, John entered the circle and everyone clapped. Sherlock had never known John to dance, but it seemed like something he just _did_ amongst his friends. A rap/hip-hop song about… a boat (?) came on, and as if pre-prepared, John started his moves, moving his arms and legs to the beat of the song, gesturing his hands like a rap person would do (Sherlock assumed) and trash-talking his opponent simultaneously. He was a terrible dancer, but in a fun way, and he could tell everybody there was laughing _with_ him, not _at_ him. 

There was also something strangely… arousing? About watching John move like that. It wasn’t like when he played sports (which was on its own a whole other shape of arousing) or when the stretched his muscles. It was something goofy and endearing, and Sherlock could feel himself beginning to want him so desperately he could hardly handle it. 

As the song finished, John received his praise and gave his opponent a high-five. Then the circle welcomed two groups of three or four who were dancing to a boyband song Sherlock only vaguely recognised from his childhood. John walked towards him, a big grin splashed across his face. His cheeks were red from the booze and the dancing, and his spirits were high. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him close. 

‘Hey, hottie,’ he said in a mock-whisper, making Sherlock laugh as he tried to hide his almost-erection. It didn’t go unnoticed though, as John looked down between their bodied. ‘Oh, hello. Who do we have here?’ 

‘Someone really enjoyed your dancing, I guess,’ Sherlock said, semi-flippant, though he knew John was onto him by the way he was looking at him. What were the chances of John abandoning this party for a shag? 

He didn’t realise he’d said that out loud until John hummed. 

‘Depends on what that shag encompasses, really,’ he said, husky voice sending the rest of the blood Sherlock had in his brain all the way South. Sherlock pulled John closer and buried his face on John’s neck, pressing wet kisses up and down. He felt John shiver as he groaned in appreciation. 

‘I’d rather just show you,’ Sherlock said, feeling emboldened by all the personal breakthroughs he’d had this evening, all the socialising and actually enjoying himself, and the fiery arousal coursing through his bloodstream. 

‘Lead the way,’ John said, and Sherlock all but dragged him into the house and upstairs, before anyone could stop them — though they wouldn’t since they were still too busy watching the dance-off. 

When they reached the bedroom, John slammed the door closed and they crashed into each other. Their kisses were mostly teeth, but that was just fine, as they removed clothing with impressive speed, eager to get to skin. Their shirts were quickly on the floor followed by shoes, socks, and trousers. Sherlock pushed John on the bed, and he flopped on it rather gracelessly, but that was just fine, because maybe Sherlock was a bit tipsy too and everything was just amazing. The heat of his skin against John’s as he crawled his way towards him on the bed, the embroidered butterflies on the duvet cover tickling the skin on his knees. He lowered himself to kiss John, and bit his lower lip, holding it between his teeth. They both let out matching moans. 

John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s naked back, and teased his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. Sherlock arched his back at that, and suddenly underwear was too large a barrier. He straddled John’s thighs and slid John’s briefs down his bum, freeing his half-erect cock, which bobbed freely in an almost comical fashion. Then he stepped out of the way and took off John’s underwear, followed by his own, throwing them both over the side of the bed, and climbed back on John’s thighs. They just stared at each other liked this, naked and wanting. John’s chest was flushed and his hair was mussed. Sherlock probably didn’t look much better, but that was fine, because that passion and need in John’s eyes told him this was enough, _he_ was enough. 

‘What do you want?’ John asked, sliding a hand over Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock looked down at him, taking all of him in. He wanted to do this now, only this once, because it felt right. 

‘I want to fuck you,’ he said. John smiled and sat up, holding Sherlock steady by wrapping his arms around his back, and leaned upwards to press a hard kiss on his lips. 

‘Sounds good,’ John said. They kissed again, less furiously, but just as passionately. John ground his hips up and their erections met, the friction enough to make them both moan again, together. 

Then Sherlock gently pushed John back onto the bed, and pressed a kiss on his sternum, on his abdomen, on his right hip, then left, then nuzzled his fine pubic hair with his nose, breathing him in, that musk mixed with soap from his shower right before the party. John’s erection stood proud now, fully hard, awaiting instructions almost. Sherlock took a moment to look at it, admire the darker flesh, the small veins and gorgeous shape of it. It was delectable. He pressed a kiss on the head, holding the shaft with one had, and he heard John’s gasp from above. He moved his hand in up and down motions as he licked the leaking head, tasting John on his tongue, salty and bitter and utterly delicious. 

He let go of John’s penis and took him in his mouth instead, not all of him, but all that he could manage. Mouthing and licking, rubbing and kissing. Doing all the things he knew would get the most exquisite responses from John, who was moaning freely as he grabbed the duvet with one hand and Sherlock hair with the other. 

‘God, Sherlock…’ he said between moans, his voice dark. 

Sherlock hummed against his cock, which only made John louder. 

As he continued his ministrations on John’s erection, Sherlock used his free hand to spread John’s legs apart and circle his hole with one finger, massaging it gently. John bent his spread knees and arched his hips up, adjusting a bit to put a pillow under himself, which was actually very helpful, as it have Sherlock better access. He’d never done this before, but John had done it enough times on him that he knew the theory. As John’s hole began to relax, he tried teasing one finger in, then out, then in again, and John seemed to enjoy it because he bucked slightly against his finger. 

He was now pressing open-mouthed kisses against John’s cock, and fingering him with gusto. John was surprisingly eager, and this was easier than he thought. It took very little time to get John completely ready, and soon he was reaching for the lube in the overnight bag, not bothering with a condom, which they hadn’t used for a while. He slathered some gel on his penis and gently rubbed some on John’s entrance, and steeled himself for this first time. He looked up at John, who was staring back at him with eyes filled with lust and love. Sherlock held John’s hips with both hands, and John grabbed the duvet above his head. 

First it was just the tip, to get acclimatised. Then slowly, carefully, Sherlock pushed himself in, feeling that tightness around him, excruciating and amazing all at once. John moaned loudly and grabbed the duvet more desperately. He was saying Sherlock’s name, which almost tipped him over the edge, but he calmed himself, and pushed all the way in. He was bent so their chests touched, and he reached for John’s lips. They kissed and kissed until the initial discomfort was gone, and John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips, which Sherlock took as a sign to start thrusting. 

It felt glorious. The tightness, the warmth, the… everything. He was literally surrounded by John. And the noises John was making were almost unbearable as his thrusts grew faster and he reached for John’s erection with his free hand. He found a different angle and thrust harder, and John came apart, screaming his name and pulling him close. Sherlock went over the edge, screaming as well as he came inside of John, feeling the hot streaks of John’s own orgasm flow between them. 

After cleaning up a bit, they lay on the bed, spent, holding each other and taking deep breaths. The room smelt heavily of sex, making Sherlock dizzy. John was ridiculously warm against him, and he could still feel him against his now flaccid penis. John was running a hand through his hair, whispering sweet-nothings in his ear. Their legs were tangled. 

‘What did you think?’ John asked, his voice rough after all the screaming. Sherlock was drawing circles on his chest with his index finger. 

‘It was great,’ he said. ‘I loved it. But… I think I prefer it the other way around…’ 

John chuckled, and Sherlock felt it against his cheek. 

‘Me too. But it’s a nice change, isn’t it?’ 

Sherlock looked up at him and smiled. 

As the party went on downstairs, they fell asleep, tangled and sated and incredibly happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIY: I'm not a fan of toplock, but I think it goes well with this characterisation of Sherlock at this point. Will probably not write any more of it in this story, but never say never, right? 
> 
> Also, the "boat song" is "I'm On a Boat" by The Lonely Island aka my karaoke song. If you haven't checked it out a) under which rock have you been living, and b) please do, it's awesome. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think either in the comments or on my [blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Cheers x 
> 
> P.S. Is there too much sex in this fic? I don't want it to be a sex-fest tbh. Let me know.


	10. just your ego's attempt to make it all clean and nice

Sherlock arrived back home in the afternoon, having separated from John at the train station with a chaste kiss and a heavy feeling on his chest that always followed their goodbyes. The house was thankfully empty when he entered, so he made his way to this bedroom to unpack his overnight bag, but he gave up almost instantly and instead spread himself on his bed, staring at the ceiling and remembering the previous night. The overwhelming feelings of being around too many people had been completely quashed by John’s presence and his touch and every second they spent together in that room. He could still feel John’s body underneath his, John’s tight skin all around himself. Sherlock didn’t bother suppressing a shudder at the memory, which made him both nostalgic and aroused at once. It had been such a trying day that after sex, they just fell asleep without doing much else, and in the morning John was frantically helping Murray clean up, so there wasn’t much time for anything there either, even though Sherlock knew they both woke up wanting more. But nothing had happened, and lying here now, alone with his memories, Sherlock couldn’t help but wish John was here. His hand made its way down his body and pressed again his almost-erection. The memories were almost enough to get him hard, but he needed more. 

As he unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down his hips, then took off his T-shirt, Sherlock brought back images of John’s face during their various encounters. His wet hair stuck to his forehead as he writhed in the throes of passion. His tense muscles flexing and relaxing under taut tan skin as he fucked Sherlock slowly, gloriously, adoringly. John’s hands, delicate yet strong, burning marks on Sherlock’s skin whenever they touched him. John’s eyes, blue and dark and red hot. His lips, thin and sweet as they kissed, as John mouthed at his skin. Sherlock’s mind was covered in these images and memories as he worked himself with one hand while rubbing a nipple with the other. He was panting, hardly breathing, almost crying as he approached breaking point. And then far too soon, he came, all over his own stomach. He took a breath. Two. Three. Chest rising and falling as he felt the ejaculate cool on his skin. This wasn’t enough to quench his thirst for John, but it would have to do. So he cleaned himself up and decided to unpack properly. 

He put his dirty clothes in the hamper and took his toiletries to the bathroom, where he took off his clothes to take a shower. Sherlock turned on the water and waited for it to warm, then got under the spray and shivered as the hot water met his cool skin. Mind pleasantly blank, he washed himself, soaping up his body and shampooing his hair, calmly and efficiently. 

A noise from downstairs indicated someone had entered the house. The door slammed shut, and Sherlock opened his eyes, wondering if it was Mummy. She was probably back from her ladies’ society lunch or whatever that was. A bunch of middle aged rich women pretending to care about the issues in Africa. She always wore a very strict-looking skirt suit ensemble, and sometimes even white gloves, and Sherlock always wondered if those women were all stuck in the 60s. He washed the suds off his chest as he listened to the muffled sounds of Mummy making her way through the house. He’d have to talk to her now, though he supposed it was better than obsessing about things in his own mind. Though maybe she’d make him eat, and he wasn’t hungry. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was done, and stepped out of the shower to dry himself off. He forgot to bring a change of clothes, so he simply wrapped himself up in the blue silk dressing gown he kept in the bathroom and walked towards his bedroom. He quickly changed into pyjamas and threw the robe on the bed, then went downstairs to greet his mother. 

As he reached the kitchen, he found Mummy standing by the counter closer to the door, looking at something on her hand, seemingly paralysed. He cleared his throat, and she startled, then looked back at him with wide eyes. 

‘Mummy?’ 

‘What is the meaning of this?’ she asked in lieu of greeting, extending his phone towards him. Sherlock vaguely remembered throwing his phone on the counter along with his keys and wallet when he entered the house, and his own eyes were now widened when he realised the implications of this. 

‘I…’ 

‘I walked in the kitchen and heard your phone buzz, so I came here to check if it was important, and it was John calling, only the image in the background was a picture of you two kissing! On the mouth! When he hung up, the image vanished, and your phone is locked, but I saw it! It was there! What is the meaning of this, Sherlock?’ 

He looked everywhere but at his mother. This was not how it was going to happen. He already had his speech prepared, he only needed to find the perfect time, but this was not it. Not when his mother was standing by the kitchen counter with a scowl on her face and he was wearing his pyjamas with his hair wet. He wished he had shoes on. It was suddenly cold and hot at once. He needed to scratch his neck. 

‘Mummy…’ 

‘Tell me, Sherlock! Now!’ 

‘Fine! Fine! I…’ he groaned in frustration, grabbed his hair and leaned back on the doorframe. ‘Fine. I’m gay. Okay? I am. And I am with John. Romantically. So, there.’ 

She stood, shell-shocked, mouth in a perfect O as she stared intently at him. As if the truth was worse than the uncertainty. But it wasn’t, and somehow Sherlock felt relieved. It was out now, no more hiding. No more pretending John was just his friend, or that the reason he couldn’t date the Pippa Worthington from the club was that he was really busy with early university reading. He sighed and looked at Mummy. She closed her mouth and straightened her back, placed his phone back on the counter and wiped her hand on her skirt. 

‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe this. You can’t…’ 

‘Why not? It doesn’t change who I am,’ he exclaimed, frustrated. ‘I’m still who I’ve always been. You knowing this doesn’t change the fact that I am me. And that I am gay, and that I am in love with a man.’ 

She snorted. ‘In love! You’re a child, what do you know about love?’ 

‘More than you, probably,’ he snarled. She gasped. He looked at the floor, fists clenched. ‘I know what I feel. I might be young, but I am not naive, nor am I stupid. I can’t make you accept it or understand it, I can only give you the facts and hope that you can get past your prejudices for my sake,’ he said, picking up his phone and walking out of the kitchen, up the stairs and towards his bedroom, leaving his stunned mother behind. 

He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it, sliding to the floor. Unlocking his phone, he went to his contacts and pressed on John’s name. 

“Hello?” asked John’s voice on the other side. He sounded happy to hear Sherlock’s voice. 

‘Hi, John,’ Sherlock said. He knew his tone betrayed how he felt. And he knew John would pick up on it instantly, ever the empath. 

“Is everything okay, love?” he asked. Sherlock sighed. 

‘Yes. No. I don’t know…’ 

“What happened?” 

‘It’s… My mother saw our picture on my phone and I told her… about me. And about us,’ Sherlock said. There was silence on the other line, and he heard John sigh. 

“Oh god. Are you okay? What did she say?” 

‘I don’t think she believed me at first, and when I left she was just standing there looking shocked. I don’t know what she’ll do, or what she’ll tell Father.’ 

“Well, if you need a place to stay, you know you can always come here. I’m so sorry you had to deal with this out of the blue, love. I know it’s not how you wanted to come out.” 

Sherlock let out a sardonic laugh. ‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t getting any closer to it anyway. Might as well be like this.’ 

He could almost feel John shaking his head. “Don’t say that, you deserved to come out on your own terms. This is a big deal, Sherlock, and it sucks that it was taken away from you.” 

Sherlock let out a breath and sank further down on the floor. ‘Yes, I suppose you are right. There’s no going back now, though. Mummy is probably calling Father right this instant, or Mycroft. God, Mycroft is going to be insufferable.’ 

“I’m sorry,” John said, sounding genuinely apologetic, and it almost made Sherlock feel better about this whole thing. 

‘Thanks. I’d better go and pack a bag in case I have to leave…’ 

John sighed again. “Okay. Call me then, so I can call off work and wait for you at home, all right?” 

‘Yes, okay.’ 

“Good. I love you.” 

‘I love you, too.’ 

Then he hung up and dropped his phone on the floor where he sat for a few more minutes, before getting up and getting a bag from his closet and filling it with a few clothes, books, and his laptop. He was about to go to the bathroom for his toiletries, but Mummy was standing by his bedroom door. She looked like she wanted to knock but couldn’t They stood like that for what felt like hours. 

‘What?’ he asked. She looked up at him. ‘Did you come here to scold me? Yell? Kick me out?’ 

She gasped. ‘Sherlock. No, I… I would never. I just.’ Mummy closed her eyes tight and rubbed them with perfectly manicured fingers. Her diamond ring sparkled against the light coming from the window. Sherlock waited. ‘I just don’t know what to think.’ 

‘Have you called Father?’ he asked, not willing to argue with her about this nonsense. It made no sense, there was nothing to understand. He was the same person he’d been the day before, only now she knew he had a sexual preference different than what she understood as default. Why was that so hard to comprehend? He felt like screaming. He almost did. 

‘No,’ she said. ‘I think this is better said in person. When he gets home, we will both sit with him—’

‘What’s the point? None of you will understand, anyway.’ 

‘Sherlock, please. I am trying. I really am. You are my baby, I love you, but this is… How did this even happen?’ she asked, wrapping her arms around herself. Her eyes were wide. 

‘It just did, I was born like this. I didn’t just wake up and decided to make my life harder by being gay, mother,’ he said. ‘But it’s who I am, and I love John.’ 

She sighed. ‘We’ll talk when your father gets home,’ she said and walked away. Sherlock watched her walk down the stairs. He shook his head and went to the bathroom. 

 

By the time Father got home, Sherlock had packed his necessities. His bag sat by the bedroom door, awaiting his fate. He hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but he could never be sure, not when his parents were so hard to read. John had been right, this wasn’t how he’d wanted to do it, but now there was no going back. It had been stupid of him to just leave his phone lying around, so now he must pay the consequences. 

Although he still felt the relief from before. It really was like a weight lifted off his shoulders. At least now he could be honest with himself, with John, with everyone. He wasn’t embarrassed about who he was or his relationship, in fact he wanted to flaunt it. He wanted to show John off, hold his hand during dinner, kiss him just because. Those thoughts gave him courage as he made his way downstairs to find his parents. 

Mummy was sitting on sofa with a cup of tea, absent-mindedly listening as Father told her a story from his day. When Sherlock walked in the room, she sat up and looked from him to Father meaningfully. 

‘Darling,’ she said. Father stopped talking and looked at her, then at Sherlock, and quirked and eyebrow. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘Sherlock has something to tell you.’ 

Father looked at him, and suddenly Sherlock was afraid. His father had always intimidated him in some way, and in some basic level, Sherlock did seek his approval. He suppressed a shiver. 

‘What is it, Sherlock?’ he asked. Sherlock shifted on his feet and played with the hem of his shirt. 

‘Well. I’m. I am gay, Father,’ he said. ‘And I am in a relationship with John.’ He knew his prepared lines sounded stilted but he just needed to get them out. He needed to say this and get it over with. Like a removing a plaster, quick and painless. Except the repercussions of this would be much greater. Not destructive, he hoped, as he watched his father react. Or lack of reaction, because he face was impassive, eyes trained on Sherlock as if studying him. 

‘William?’ Mummy asked. 

‘Yes, Eleanor?’ Father asked, voice distant. He was processing the information. At least he wasn’t yelling. Sherlock wished he’d say something. 

‘What do you have to say, William?’ Mummy asked again. Father tore his eyes from Sherlock at last to look at Mummy, who looked concerned — about what, Sherlock didn’t know. 

‘Our son is a homosexual,’ said Father, matter-of-factly. ‘Is that right?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Sherlock and Mummy in unison. Father nodded. 

‘Well, then.’ 

‘It’s not a choice, either. This is just who I am, and I am okay with that. I am in love, and I am happy for the first time in my life,’ Sherlock said, rambling. He wanted a reaction, something, anything! Why was he so impassive? 

Father nodded and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. ‘And you’re with John.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

He hummed. ‘I can’t say I understand this, Sherlock. I am an old man, set in my ways, used to things as they were,’ he said, and Sherlock felt his heart tighten. ‘However,’ a spark of hope. ‘You are my son, and you are one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, and if you are certain of this, then I will try to be okay with it. I will try to understand.’ He looked at Mummy. ‘We will. Won’t we?’ 

Her eyes were glistening and she dabbed at their corners with a handkerchief. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. We love you, darling. So much,’ she said to Sherlock. 

Sherlock stood, stunned, staring between his parents. ‘I…’ 

‘I’ll go make us some tea,’ said Mummy, leaving for the kitchen. Now it was only Sherlock and his father, looking at each other. Father was wearing his usual combination of a sharp suit and a statement tie, polished shoes and pocked square. He looked serene as he looked at Sherlock, not the slightest angry or upset. It was not at all the reaction Sherlock expected.

‘What kind of reaction did you think you’d receive from me?’ he asked, reading Sherlock’s mind. 

‘Yelling. Anger. I figured I’d be kicked out. I even packed a bag just in case.’ Father laughed. 

‘Yes, I can see how you would think that. I haven’t always been the most reasonable man. But you are an adult now, Sherlock. You are no longer a child playing with a Chemistry set or making deductions about your friends’ parents in the playground. You are going to university to get ready for your life, and you no longer need parenting, only support and acceptance. I cannot tell you how to live your life, never could, really. And I’m afraid that if we don’t accept you now, you will leave and we will never see you again, I could not bear that. Nor could you mother,’ he explained, looking at the floor. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. ‘Do you understand?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Still, now that I know what you and John really are, there must be some ground rules, because you still live under my roof,’ he said, with purpose, as he slid his glasses back on. Sherlock straightened. 

‘Rules?’ 

‘Yes. The same rules I’d set if you had a girlfriend spending the night. Or if you spent countless days in her house unsupervised.’ 

Sherlock groaned. ‘Father…’ 

‘Quiet. Listen.’ Sherlock pursed his lips. ‘Right. John cannot sleep over anymore. You can stay at his flat, but for no longer than three nights at once. And you must call once a day to let us know where you are and what you are doing. I know John is responsible, so I am trusting him with you. And believe me neither of us will enjoy this next part, but I would like both of you to get tested.’ 

‘What?’ Sherlock nearly screamed. He couldn’t be serious. ‘Father, this is—’

‘Sherlock, I am under no illusion that you and John are in a non-sexual relationship. And I know you probably have been tested before, but I would like to see a recent test result from both of you. I am in no place to tell you how to… proceed with your… _boyfriend_ , but I want you to be safe.’ 

Sherlock sighed. ‘Fine, fine.’ 

‘Good.’ 

‘Do you want to have him for dinner as well? A proper meet the parents situation?’ Sherlock asked sarcastically. Father shook his head. 

‘I don’t think your mother and I are ready for that just yet. This is… a lot to absorb in one evening.’ 

Then Mummy walked back in with a tray carrying three tea cups. Sherlock didn’t feel like tea. He wanted to go upstairs and call John. This had been the most surreal day of his life, and he needed John’s voice to ground him, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. 

‘May I be excused?’ he asked, uncharacteristically polite. Father nodded, seemingly also relieved to see Sherlock go for now. 

Sherlock went to his bedroom and lay on the bed. He scrolled down his contacts and pressed on John’s name again. The phone rang once before John picked. 

“How did it go? Are you coming over?” John asked, concerned. 

‘It was… fine. Good, actually. I still can’t quite believe it.’ 

“What do you mean?” 

Sherlock retold the events, from his coming out to his fathers rules, and John listened, making sounds when appropriate. After he finished, there was silence on the other side. Then John let out a small “wow.”

“That is… you’re right, surreal. But it’s great, though! I’m glad you weren’t kicked out or yelled at.” 

‘Me too. Though it’s a bit disgusting that my father knows that I’m having sex now…’ 

John laughed. “True. Do you want me to set up the test?” 

Sherlock sighed. ‘I guess. I don’t see the point, but whatever.’

“Sherlock… your father is being so accommodating, the least you can do is give him some peace of mind. Aunt Bel makes me get tested every six months as well,” he explained. “They were alive during the AIDS epidemic, you can’t expect them not to fear for our safety.” 

Sherlock nodded and hummed. ‘I suppose…’ 

He heard John chuckle on the other end, and pictured him shaking his head. “Fine, fine. Look, since everything’s okay, I’ll head out to work. Those tables won’t wait themselves. But will I see you tomorrow?” 

‘All right. I think so. I’ll text you in the morning.’

“Okay. Love you,” John said. 

‘Love you, too,’ Sherlock said, hanging up. He threw the phone on the nightstand and stared up at the ceiling. After such an insane day, his head was beginning to pound. He felt his eyelids getting heavier and before he knew it, he was asleep. 

\- 

Sherlock opened the door to John’s flat and let himself in. He was nowhere in sight, but there was a faint sound of water coming from the bathroom, so Sherlock placed his bag by the bed and, with a smirk, began removing his clothes. By the time he reached the bathroom door, he was only in his silk boxers. 

He twisted the doorknob and opened it slightly only to pass then closed it again. The room was full of steam from John’s ridiculously hot shower. John was singing under the spray of water, ‘ _they wanna get my gold on the ceiling, it’s all right, just a matter of time_ ,’ he sang, a bit off-key and entirely endearing. 

Sherlock removed his boxers and walked towards the shower, and knocked on the glass. John stopped singing and turned to face him, eyes squinting under the water. He looked delectable, water trailing down his firm tan body. The hair of his head was stuck to his forehead, and his pubic hair was covered in soap. Sherlock licked his lips as his eyes found John’s dark pink flaccid penis, which was beginning to grow interested as John watched him. 

‘Hey,’ Sherlock said, smirk still on his lips. 

John chuckled. ‘Hey, love. You wanna shower?’ he asked. Sherlock didn’t even reply, just stepped into the shower and John’s personal space, crowding him against the wall. The hot water fell down his back and he hissed at the contact. ‘Problem?’ asked John. 

‘None at all,’ Sherlock said, leaning down and capturing John’s lips in a searing kiss. They devoured each other, lips and tongues sliding together. John’s hands roamed along his back, and Sherlock cupped John’s bottom with both hands, squeezing hard, lifting him up to align them. John was half hard already, and so was Sherlock. John hummed against his lips. Sherlock groaned at the back of his throat. They moaned together when their erections met. 

One of John’s hands moved to his bottom, sliding between his cheeks and pressing against his hole. Sherlock moaned again. ‘Yes,’ he said. John probed further. Their bodies slid together, mouths never apart for more than it took to take a breath, the water between them making their skins slick. 

‘God, Sherlock,’ John moaned in between kisses. He slid a finger inside Sherlock, who arched back, wanting more and more and more. With his other hand, John pumped Sherlock’s full erection, and Sherlock pulled him closer, kissing down John’s neck, tasting the honey soap he used and also that flavour that was so distinctive to John’s skin. He bit down and used one of his hands to cradle the back of his neck. 

John groaned. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ John said. He turned off the shower, and, still kissing, they moved towards the bed, falling onto it clumsily, and John flipped Sherlock over, lifting him up by the hips and entering him with his tongue, mouthing at his entrance, making Sherlock squirm. Sherlock moaned and cried as John licked him thoroughly, making filthy sounds from behind him. 

‘John… John…’ Sherlock cried. His body was covered in water and sweat, and he could feel John’s saliva sliding down his thighs. 

‘Do you want me, Sherlock?’ John asked, as he mouthed one of Sherlock’s cheeks, biting on it, making him hiss. ‘Do you want me in you?’ 

‘Yes, god yes.’ 

John flipped him over again, and their mouths met in another burning kiss, all tongue and heat. Somehow John managed to align himself with Sherlock without looking and thrust into him, with restraint and power all at once, and Sherlock let out a loud cry, followed by a moan. John picked up the pace, got a rhythm going, and the only sounds in the room were their moans and their skin slapping together as John thrust in and out of him. Their chests heaved as they kissed. John took a hold of Sherlock’s erection and pumped it, massaging the head as he found that delicious spot inside him that made him completely lose it. 

Sherlock came with a loud moan, followed closely by John, and after they lay together sprawled on the bed, ejaculate drying between them. They were panting and giggling together. 

‘Welcome home, darling,’ John said. Sherlock snorted. 

‘Sorry I made you shower irrelevant,’ said Sherlock not at all apologetically. 

‘I forgive you, darling,’ John said, pressing a kiss on his cheek. ‘We will both have to shower now, though. Our appointment is in an hour.’ 

Sherlock groaned. ‘Ugh, no.’ 

John laughed. ‘Yup. Sorry, hon. But if you’re good, I will make it worth your while when we come back.’ 

‘You’d better,’ said Sherlock with a hum. John placed a kiss on his forehead and got up. 

‘You rest your pretty arse while I take the first shower,’ he said, walking to the bathroom. Sherlock nodded. His eyes followed John as he walked, fixed on his shapely body. He smiled and closed his eyes once the bathroom door closed, and leaned back against the pillows. 

Later they would have to get ready to leave, but for now, Sherlock was comfortable lying in the mess they’ve made together, still feeling John all around him, and he was indeed and truly happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! What a ride. Thanks everyone who's read this and commented and liked and bookmarked, I've really enjoyed writing this story, and I hope you've enjoyed reading it. 
> 
> I'll write an epilogue soon, but for now this story is officially completed! 
> 
> As always, you can reach me through my [blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com) if you have any questions or prompts or whatever. Please let me know what you think of this story!
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading, I really appreciate it. 
> 
> Cheers xxx


	11. epilogue; or it's how to imagine the lives we used to have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue! Sexy times! Enjoy!

The morning light seeped slowly through the window, drenching the small flat in the yellows and whites of a new day. The curtains fluttered with the late summer wind, and the birds chirped louder and louder perched on lampposts outside. Sherlock blinked slowly as the light hit his eyes. He was gently pulled out of his sleep, yet still refused to give it up, and buried his face further on the chest below him. The arm around his shoulders tightened its grip, and Sherlock felt warm all over. 

‘Hm,’ hummed Jon above him. Sherlock felt the vibrations under his cheek, and pressed a kiss next to John’s nipple, receiving another happy hum in response. He glanced at the watch and saw it was half six. Far too early to be awake, in his opinion, but John had to be at the hospital early. ‘Good morning,’ John finally said, half-moan half-yawn, clearly still clinging to the last remnants of sleep. They had gone to bed very late the night before, and were definitely paying the price now. Not that there were any regrets. Sherlock still felt the pleasant aches from their activities on his muscles, and all he wanted to do all day was to lie with John and enjoy his body against his own. 

But that was how they’d spent all summer, and now it was time to get back to the reality of university. Sherlock sighed. 

‘Morning,’ he replied grumpily, and felt more than saw John chuckle under him. 

‘Okay, happy goose, time to get ready,’ John said, snapping out of his sleepiness and becoming that adorably irritating morning person Sherlock knew and loved. ‘What time’s your first lecture?’ he asked as he dislodged himself from Sherlock’s grip and went to the bathroom. He was unashamedly naked, and Sherlock enjoyed the view. 

‘Ten, then lab work at two. What’s your day like?’ Sherlock asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with both hands. 

‘I’ve got my first shift at the hospital today. Twenty-four hours. So I won’t be back until tomorrow,’ John said from the bathroom. Sherlock listened to him brushing his teeth, and settled back on the pillows. He looked around their flat and smiled to himself, because it really was _their_ flat now. He had moved in three weeks before, cementing their relationship into something more serious than Sherlock had ever imagined. And it was wonderful, knowing this is where he lived, permanently, and that he could see John whenever he wanted. 

All the sex wasn’t bad either, he thought with a smirk. 

His parents had come to accept John as a fixed part of Sherlock’s life, and were somewhat supportive about the move, for which Sherlock was grateful. So, he wasn’t really that upset about John being away for such a long time at the hospital, because he would be here waiting for him when he came back. 

John got out of the bathroom, looking refreshed and pink from shaving and scrubbing his face. He carried the scent of mint and aftershave with him through the flat as he moved to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. 

Sherlock got up and walked after him. Like John, he was nude, and felt the cold September breeze come through the window against his still sleep-warm skin, making him shiver. He stopped behind John, who was waiting for the kettle to boil on the counter, and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face on his shoulder. He nipped on the skin below his ear, nuzzled at his earlobe, taking in that delicious early morning scent. 

‘Feeling clingy?’ John asked, amused. Sherlock simply hummed and ran his hands all around John’s pecs and abs. John’s head fell backwards on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock admired that gorgeous neck as he watched John’s Adam’s apple bob. 

‘Something for you to take with you to the hospital,’ Sherlock said, turning John over and getting on his knees in front of him. John all but squeaked as Sherlock took him all in at once. John grabbed his hair as he bobbed his head while massaging John’s testicles with one hand, and pinching his right nipple with the other. 

‘Oh, god… Yes, right there…’ John moaned. Sherlock let got of the shaft and started licking the head, tasting John more strongly there than anywhere else. With his hand, he started softly pumping the shaft as he continued licking the head. John grabbed his hair harder, knowing Sherlock loved it. 

Then Sherlock licked a stripe from the very base of John’s cock to the tip, up and down, up and down, getting him nice and wet, because taking him all in again, continuing to suck and roll his tongue over the hot skin of John’s penis. He loved doing this because John was so responsive, every time. He was now leaning against the counter, bracing himself with one hand while the other still played with Sherlock’s hair. But Sherlock wanted to go deeper, so he moved John so that he had one leg over Sherlock’s shoulder, the other still braced on the floor. He took John in deeper, and with the hand that was massaging his testicles, he began rubbing teasing circles on John’s hole, and John cried, gasped and started panting loudly along with his moans. 

‘Jesus… Jesus Christ, Sherlock… yes…’ he said. ‘I’m… almost there!’ 

Sherlock could feel his testicles tighten as he was approaching breaking point, and he kept going, up and down, up and down, licking, sucking, brushing teeth, until John got there, with a sharp pull on Sherlock’s head as a warning, and he came in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock rode it out with him, sucking until John was spent. 

Then he let go of him, putting his leg back down, wiping his hand with the back of his hand, smiling widely at the ecstasy in John’s face. 

‘You’re gonna be the end of me, love,’ John said. He looked down and saw Sherlock’s own erection. ‘Come up so I can return the favour,’ he added, with a sly smile that made Sherlock’s knees wobbly. 

‘D-do you have time?’ Sherlock asked as she stood up. John smirked. 

‘I’m sure I can make you come in under two minutes, Sher,’ he said, a hint of a challenge in his voice, and Sherlock was never one to shy away from challenges so he smiled back. John took his hand and dragged him back to bed, where he made Sherlock bend over, face lying on the pillows, knees apart, bottom in the air. Then John settled behind him, and with one hand started to pump his erection calmly, just testing the waters. ‘Look at that, you’re all hard already, just from blowing me… You love that, don’t you?’ 

Sherlock could only moan, revelling in the feeling of John’s hand rubbing him. Then he felt John’s breath on his hole, warm and cold at the same time, and then his mouth was kissing his cheeks, licking and pressing filthy open-mouthed kisses, until it reached its prize, Sherlock’s expectant, quivering hole. While still massaging Sherlock’s shaft, brushing the head with a thumb, John pressed a kiss right on the tight sphincter, then another, deeper, then began lapping at it with gusto, getting Sherlock all wet with saliva and delirious with want. He darted his tongue in and out, and pressed a finger of his free hand inside, opening him up slowly as he pumped him more enthusiastically with his other hand. His finger was in, and found his prostate easily, as any good doctor would, and John was a fantastic doctor.

Sherlock cried at all the mingling sensations. He was so close, it would have been embarrassing had he not been on the edge of utter bliss. He was groaning and moaning John’s name in between cries to deities in which he didn’t believe. John’s mouth pressed harder on him, more passionately than before, and his hand was pumping him furiously. With another brush of his tongue inside Sherlock’s hole, John had him coming hard all over the sheets. He moved with Sherlock, pumping him through his orgasm lovingly. 

When he was done, Sherlock fell back into bed, mindful of the pool of ejaculate under him, spent. He was breathing hard, and John embraced him from behind. 

‘And this you can keep from me while I’m at the hospital,’ he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, making him chuckle. 

‘I’d rather keep you, but I guess you have to go save lives or whatever,’ Sherlock said. John laughed out loud. 

‘God, I love you,’ John said, pressing a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and then getting up to brush his teeth and change before he left. 

With a dreamy grin Sherlock said ‘I love you, too,’ before falling back asleep, dreaming of sunlit kisses and soft caresses.

He missed his 10AM lecture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is promised epilogue. It wasn't super long, mostly because I just wanted one more little scene between these two dorks before ending this story completely. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you liked it! Please let me know what you think. And don't forget to check out my [new femlock fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4417658), if you're into it. 
> 
> As always, you can reach me at the [blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com) with any questions, comments or prompts. I'll do my best to answer! 
> 
> Cheers xx

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the official playlist for this fic [here](https://8tracks.com/mariana-duarte-1291/the-warmest-colour), and the covers for my fics that I've been making [here](http://writingquill.tumblr.com/tagged/fic-cover-challenge). And if you have any additional comments or anything else to talk to me about, I'm always available on the [writing blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com).


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